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BYRON'S    WORKS. 


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THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


LORD    BYRON. 


COMPLETE  IN  ONE  VOLUME. 


COLLECTED   AND   ARRANGED,   WITH   ILLUSTRATIVE    NOTES 


THOMAS  MOORE,  PROFESSOR  WILSON, 

LORD  JEFFREY,  J.  G.  LOCKHART, 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  GEORGE  ELLIS, 

BISHOP  HEBER,  THOMAS  CAMPBELL, 

SAMUEL  ROGERS,  REV.  ^.  H.  MILMAN, 

'  dec.  Sec.  ftc. 


IXiLUSTRATBD  WITH  BLBGANT  8TEBL  BVa&AVlVQB. 


NEW   YORK: 
D    APPLETON  &  COMPANY,  200  BROADWAY. 

PHILADELPHIA: 

G.  S.  APPLETON,  164  CHESNUT  STREET. 

^  M  DOOO  L, 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


HOURS   OP   IDLENESS. 

BY   K.    RXOHTBB. 

'*0h!  marie  yoa  yon  pair:  in  the  sunshine  of  youth 

Lore  twined  round  their  childhood  his  flow'rs  as  they  grew; 
Tliey  flourish  awhile  in  the  season  of  truth, 

Till  chillM  by  the  winter  of  love*s  last  adieu  !** 

FAQB  398. 


HEBREW   MELODIES. 

BT   BBIDBMANN. 

"We  sate  down  and  wept  by  the  waters 
Of  Babel,  and  thought  of  the  day 
When  our  foe,  in  the  hue  of  his  daugfateriy 
Made  Salem's  hi|^  places  his  prey." 

PAOi  477 


FBANCESCA   OP   RIMINI. 

BT  DEOAISNB. 

**We  read  one  day  for  pastime,  seated  nigh» 
Of  Lancilot,  how  love  enchain'd  him  too." 

VAOB  51C. 


CONTENTS. 


YAOB 

CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

Pkstacs  to  the  Pint  and  Second  Cantos 11 

ToUirrHB 13 

CawioI 13 

CAirron 86 

CAirroIII 38 

CaictoIV 51 

Dedicatiqic 51 

THE  GIAOUR;  A  Fkaoment  of  a  Tcrkibh  Talb   78 

Dehigation 78 

ADVKKTBEIfKirr 78 

THEBRIDEOF  ABYD06;  ATdrkibhTalb...    87 
Dedicatiqic 67 

THE  CORSAIR;  A  Talb 09 

DSDlCATIOIf 90 

LARA;«A  Tauk 118 

THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH 130 

Dkdication 130 

AmrERTttKlfSNT 130 

PARISINA 141 

Dedication 141 

ADVEETueiuDrr 141 

THE  PRISONER  Of   ^^HILLON;  A  Fable....  148 
Sonnet  to  Chillon 148 

BEPPO;  A  Vehbtian  Stoet 158 

MAZEPPA 183 

ADTEETnCMEirT 163 

THE   ISLAND;    Or,  CmuiTiAif  and  hib  Com- 

EADES 171 

AUfEETIBEMEWT 171 

MANFRED;  A  Dbamatio  Poem 185 

MARINO  FALIERO.  DOGE  OF  VENICE;  Aw 

Hbtoeical  Teaoedt 803 

Preface 803 

HEAVEN  AND  EARTH;  A  Mtvteet 848 

SARDANAPALUS ;  A  Traoedt 854 

DEOICATIOlf 854 

Preface 854 

THE  TWO  FOSC ARI ;  Ak  HierroBiCAL  Tragedy  387 

THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED ;  A  Drama  310 
310 


FAOB 

CAIN;  A  Mtrert 336 

Dedication 336 

Preface 336 

WERNER ;  Or,  The  Inhkritamcs  :  A  Traoedt  351 

Dedication 351 

Preface 351 

HOURS  OF  IDLENESS;  A  Serieb  of  Poemb, 

Original  AND  Translated 385 

Dedication 385 

Preface 385 

On  the  Death  of  a  Young  Lady,  counn  to  the 

author,  and  very  dear  to  him 386 

ToE 387 

ToD 387 

Epitaph  on  a  Friend... 387 

A  Fragment 388 

On  leaving  Newitead  Abbey 388 

Linee  written  in  *'  Lettersof  an  Italian  Nun  and 

an  English  Gentleman;  by  J.  J.  Rousseau: 

founded  on  Facts*' 380 

Answer  to  tlie  foregoing,  addressed  to  Miss 389 

Adrian's  Address  to  his  Soul  when  Dying 389 

Translation  from  Catullus.    Ad  Lesbiam 389 

Translation  of  the  Epitaph  on  Virgil  and  Tibul- 

lus,  by  Domitius  MaiBUS 389 

Imitation  of  Tibullus.     **Sulpicia  ad  Cerin- 

thum" 389 

Translation  from  Catullus.    **  Lugete  Veneres, 

Cupidinesque,"  &c 389 

Imitated fh>m CatuDus.   ToEUen 389 

Translation  from  Horace.    "  Justum  et  tena-  . 

oem,"&c 390 

From  Anacreon.    "  ecXw  Xcyciv  Arpuiaf,** 390 

From  Anacreon.  "  Mt^ovwcruus  vod*  &pais,*\ . .  390 
From  the  Pnunetheus  Vinctus  of  iEschylus. 

"M^aa/i'  &  wdvra  vi^w,  k.  r.  X." 390 

To  Emma 391 

ToM.S.G.  391 

To  Caroline 391 

To  the  same 392 

To  the  same 393 

Stanzas  to  a  Lady,  with  the  Poems  of  Camotns.  393 

Tlie  Fust  Kiss  of  Love 393 

On  a  Change  of  MasteiB  at  a  great  Public  School  393 

To  the  Duke  of  Dorset 393 

Fragment,  written  diortly  after  the  Marriage  of 

MissChaworth 394 

Granta;  a  Medley 395 

On  a  Distant  View  of  the  Village  and  School  of 

Harrow  on  the  Hill 396 


6 


CONTENTS. 


PAOB 

ToM 996 

To  Woman 3»7 

T0M.S.G 397 

To  Mary,  on  leceiTing  her  Picture 397 

ToLeabia 397 

Lines  addreawd  to  a  Young  Lady,  who  was 
alarmed  at  the  Somid  of  a  Ballet  hianng  near 

her 398 

Love*B  last  Adieu 398 

Damietafl 399 

To  Marion 399 

To  a  Lady  who  preMnted  to  the  Author  a  Lock 

of  Hair,  braided  with  his  own 399 

Oscarof  Alva.    A  Tale 400 

The  Episode  of  NisuB  and  Euryaius 403 

Translation    from   the    Medea  of  Euripides, 

"  Epwrcf  hvtp  fttv  ayavy  k.  t.  XV 408 

Thoughts  suggested  by  a  College  Examination. .  407 

To  a  beautiful  Quaker 407 

The  Cornelian 408 

An  Occasional  Prologue  to  "  The  Wheel  of  For- 
tune"   408 

On  the  Death  of  Mr.  Fox 409 

The  Tear 409 

Reply  to  some  Yerees  of  J.  M.  B.  Pigot,  Esq.,  on 

the  Cruelty  of  his  Mistress 410 

To  the  sighing  Strephon 410 

ToEliia 410 

Lachin  y  Gair 411 

To  Romance 41 1 

Answer  to  some  elegant  Yerses  sent  by  a 
Friend  to  the  Author,  complaining  that  one 
of  his  Descriptions  was  rather  too  warmly 

drawn 412 

Elegy  on  Newstead  Abbey 413 

Childish  Recollections 414 

Answer  to  a  beautiful   Poem,  entitled  "The 

Common  Lot" 419 

To  a  Lady  who  presented  the  Author  with  the 

Yelvet  Band  which  bound  her  TVesses 4S0 

Remembrance 4S0 

Lines  addressed  to  the  Rev.  J.  T.  Becher,  on  his 
advising  the  Author  to  mix  more  with  So- 
ciety   480 

The  Death  of  Calmar  and  Orla.    An  Imitation 

of  Macpherson's  Ossian 431 

L'Amiti^  est  1' Amour  sans  Ailes 43S 

The  Prayer  of  Nature 483 

To  Edward  Noel  Long,  Esq 484 

Oh !  had  my  fate  been  join'd  with  thine  1 485 

I  would  I  were  a  careleis  Child 435 

When  I  roved  a  young  Highlander 436 

To  George,  Earl  Delawarr 487 

To  the  Earl  of  Gare 437 

Lines  written  beneath  an  Ehn  in  the  Church- 

yardofHarrow 488 

Article  on  the  '*  Hours  of  Idleness,"  inm  the 
Edinburgh  Review 439 

ENGLISH   BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  REYIEW- 

ERS;  A  Satire 430 

Prkfaok 430 

HINTS  FROM  HORACE;  Bsiwa  an  Allusion, 
IN  Enoldh  Ykrsb,  to  the  EnsTLB  "  Ad  Pi- 
soNEs,  DE  Arte  Poetioa" 447 

THE  CURSE  OF  MINERYA 463 


THE  WALTZ;  An  ApoffrRormo  Hymn 467 

To  the  PUBUBHSR. 467     | 

ODE  TO  NAPOLEON  BONAPARTE 470 

HEBREW  MELODIES 473 

She  Walks  in  Beauty J74 

The  Harp  the  Monarch  Minstrel  swept 474 

If  that  High  Worid 474 

The  wild  Gazelle 474 

OhI  weepforthose ..  474 

On  Jordan's  Banks.... 474 

Jephtha's  Daughter 474 

Oh !  snatchM  away  in  Beauty's  Bloom 474  | 

MySoulisdark 474   | 

Isawtheeweep 475 

Hiy  Days  are  done 475 

Song  of  Saul  before  his  last  Battle 475 

Saul 475 

**  All  is  Yanity,  saith  the  Preacher" 476 

When  Coldness  wraps  this  suffering  Clay 476 

Yision  of  Belshazzar 476 

Sun  of  the  Sleepless 476 

Were  my  Bosom  as  false  as  thoudeem'st  it  to  be  477  | 

Herod's  Lament  for  Mariamne 477  I 

On  the  Day  of  the  Destruction  of  Jerusalem  by         ' 

Titus 477  j 

By  the  Rivers  of  Babylon  we  sat  down  and  Wept  477   < 

The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib 477  | 

A  Spirit  pass'd  before  me.    From  Job 478  i 

DOMESTIC  PIECES-1816 478   I 

Fare  thee  Well 478  ! 

ASketch 479 

Stanzas  to  Augusta.    "  When  all  around  grew 

drear  and  darij" 480  I 

Stanzas  to  Augusta.    "  Though  the  Day  of  my         J 

Destiny's  over" 480 

Epistle  to  Augusta.   **  My  Sister !  my  sweet  Sis- 
ter! ifaName" 480  | 

Lines  on  hearing  that  Lady  Byron  was  ill 483 

MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  RIGHT 
HON.  R.  B.  SHERIDAN 483 

THE  DREAM 484 

THE  LAMENT  OF  TASSO 486 

Advertisement 486 

ODE  ON  YENICE 490 


THE  MORGANTE  MAGGIORE  OF  PULCT. 
Advertisement 


493 
493 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE 506 

Dedication 506 

Preface 507 

Canto  1 507 

Canto  II 509 

Canto  III 510 

Canto  lY 513 

FRANCESCA  OF  RIMINI 515 

THE  BLUES;  A  Literart  Eclogue 517 

THE  YISION  OF  JUDGMENT S32 

Prepack SS8 


THE  AGE  OF  BRONZE ;  Or,  Carmen  Secularb 
bt  Annus  haud  Mirabius S3f 


CONTENTS. 


PAOB 

OCCASIONAL  PIECB6:  1807-1884. 

The  Adiea.    Written  imder  the  ImpTMnoQ  that 

the  AutluM' would  lOOD  die 544 

To  a  vain  Lady 545 

To  Anne 545 

To  the  same 545 

To  the  Aathor  of  a  Sonnet  beginning,  **  Sad  is 

my  Vene,  yoo  say,  and  yet  no  Tear" 545 

On  finding  a  Fan 545 

FkxvweUtotheMnse 546 

ToanOakatNewrtead 546 

On  revisiting  Harrow 547 

Efritaph  on  John  Adamaof  Soathwell,  a  Carrier, 

who  died  of  Dninkenneas 547 

To  my  Son 547 

Farewell !  if  ever  fondest  Prayer 547 

Bright  be  the  Place  of  thy  Soul 547 

When  we  Two  parted ,548 

ToaYoQthftdFriend 548 

Lines  inscribed  upon  a  Cnp  formed  from  a  Skull  549 

WeD,  thou  art  happy ! 549 

Inscription  on  the  Monument  of  a  Newfoundland 

Dog 549 

To  a  Lady,  on  being  asked  my  Reason  for  quit- 
ting England  in  the  Spring. 550 

Remind  me  not,  remind  me  not 550 

There  was  a  Time,  I  need  not  name 550 

And  wilt  thou  weep  when  I  am  low  ? 550 

Fill  the  Goblet  again.    A  Song 551 

Stanzas  to  a  Lady,  on  leaving  Elngland 558 

lines  to  Mr.  Hodgson.    Written  on  board  the 

Lirtwn  Packet. 552 

Lines  written  in  an  Album  at  Malta 553 

To  Florence 553 

Stanzas  composed  during  a  Thunder-storm 553 

Stanzas  written  on  passing  the  Ambracian  Gulf.  554 

"The  Spell  is  broke,  the  Charm  is  flown ! 554 

Written  after  swinmiing  from  Sestos  to  Abydos.  555 
Lines  in  the  Travellers*  Book  at  Orchomenus. . .  555 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part 555 

Translation  of  the  Nurse's  Dole  in  the  Medea  of 

Euripides 556 

MyEi^taph 556 

Substitute  for  an  E^taph 556 

Lines  written  beneath  a  Picture 556 

Traoriation  of  the  famous  Greek  War  Song, 

**  AtiTt  wmiisf,**  Ac 556 

Transiation  of  the  Romaic  Song,  '*Mir<yw  fnf 

WW^«<Xi,"Ac 557 

On  Parting 557 

Epitaph  for  Joseph  Blackett,  late  Poet  and  Shoe- 
maker.    557 

FareweU  to  Malta 558 

ToDives.    AFragment 558 

On  Moore's  last  Operatic  Farce,  or  Farcical 

Opera 658 

EpisUe  to  a  Friend,  in  answer  to  some  Lines  ex- 
horting the  Author  to  be  cheerful,  and  to 

"bankhcaie" 558 

ToThyrza.    "  Without  a  Stone,"  Ac 559 

Stanzas.    **  Away,  away,  ye  Notes  of  Wo" 560 

Stanzas.    **OneStiTigglemore,  andlamfree".  560 

Knthanasia.    "  When  Time,"  Ac 560 

Stanzas.  **  And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  as  fair"  561 
Stanzas.     "If  sometimes  in  the  Haunts  of 

Men" 561 

On  a  Cotnelian  Heart  which  was  broken 563 

from  the  French 563 


Unee  to  a  Lady  weeping 563 

'*  The  Chain  I  gave,"  Ac.    From  the  Turkish. .  563 
Lines  written  on  a  Blank  Leaf  of  "  The  Pleas- 
ures of  Memory" 563 

Address,  spoken  at  the  Opening  of  Dniry  Lane 

Theatre,  October  10, 1812 5«2 

Parenthetical  Address,  by  Dr.  Plagiary 563 

Yeraes  found  in  a  Summer-house  at  Hales  Owen  564 

Remember  Thee !  Remember  lliee ! 564 

To  Time 564 

Translation  of  aRomaic  Love  Song 565 

Stanzas.    **  Thou  art  not  false,"  &c 565 

On  being  asked  what  was  the  **  Origin  of  Love"  565 

Stanzas.    "  Remember  Him,"  Ac 565 

On  Lord  Thuriow's  PoeuM 566 

To  Lord  Thurlow 566 

To  ThomM  Moore.  Written  the  Evening  be- 
bre  his  Vjsit  to  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt,  in  Horae- 

monger-Lane  Jail 566 

Impromptu.  "  When  from  the  Heart  where  Sor- 
row site" 567 

Sonnet,  to  Genevra 567 

Sonnet,  to  the  same 567 

From  the  Portuguese.    '*  Tu  mi  chamas" 567 

Another  Version 567 

The  Devil's  Drive.    An  unfinished  Rhapsody.. .  567 

Windsor  Poetics 568 

Stanzas  for  Music    **  I  speak  not,  I  trace  not," 

Ac 568 

Address  intended  to  be  recited  at  the  Caledonian 

Meeting 568 

Fragment  of  an  Epistle  to  Thomas  Moore 569 

Condolatory  Address  to  Sarah,  Countess  of  Jer- 
sey, on  the  Prince  Regent's  returning  her  Pic- 
ture to  Mrs.  Mee 569 

ToBelshazzar j; 

Elegiac  Stanzas  on  the  Death  of  Sir  Peter  Par- 
ker, Bart {70 

C Stanzas  for  Music.    "There's  not  a  Joy  the 
Workl  can  give,"  Ac 570 
Stanzas  for  Music.    "  There  be  none  of  Beauty's 

Daughtere" 571 

On  Napoleon's  Escape  from  Elba 571 

Ode  from  the  French.    **  We  do  not  curse  thee, 

Waterloo" 571 

F^om  the  French.    **  Must  thou  go,  my  glorious 

Chief  r' 572 

On  the  Star  of  "  The  Legion  of  Honor."    From 

the  French 572 

Napoleon's  Farewell.    From  the  Frendi 573 

Endorsement  to  tlie  Deed  of  Separation,  in  the 

Aprilofl816 573 

Darkness 573 

Churchill's  Grave 574 

Prometheus 575 

AFragment.    **  Could  I  remount,"  Ac -..  575 

Sonnet  to  Lake  Leman 575 

Romance  muy  Doloroso  del  Sitio  y  Toma  de 

Alhama 576 

A  very  moumftil  Ballad  on  the  Siege  and  Con- 
quest of  Alhama. 576 

Sonetto  di  Vittorelli.    PerMonaca 578 

Translation  from  Vittorelli.    On  a  Nun 578 

Stanzas  for  Muric.    "  Bright  be  the  Place  of  thy 

Soul" 578 

Stanzas  for  Mi^ic.    **They  say  that  Hope  is 

Happinesi" 578 

To  Thomas  Moore.    "MyBari^isontheShore".  178 


y 


CONTENTS. 


PAOK 

On  the  Boat  of  Helen  by  Caiumi 578 

Song  for  the  Luddites 579 

To  Thomas  Moore.    "What  are  yon  doing 

nowf' 579 

So,  we'll  go  no  more  a  roving 579 

Versicles 579 

ToMr.Murray.    *' To  hook  the  Reader** 579 

Epistle  from  Mr.  Mniray  to  Dr.  Polidori 579 

Epistle  to  Mr.  Murray.    **  My  dear  Mr.  Mir- 

ray,»'&c 580 

To  Mr.  Murray.    **  Strahan,  Tonson,"  &c 580 

On  the  Birth  of  John  William  Rizzo  Hoppner. . .  581 

Stanzas  to  the  Po 581 

Sonnet  to  George  the  Fourth,  on  the  Repeal  of 

Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald's  Forfeiture 589 

Epigram  from  the  French  of  Rulhidree 583 

Stanzas.    "  Could  Love  forever,"  &c 583 

On  my  Wedding  Day 583 

-Epitaph  for  WiUiam  Pitt 583 

Epigram.    "In  digging  up  your  Bones,  Tom 

Paine,"  Ac 583 

'  Stanzas.    **  When  a  Man  hath  no  Freedom  to 

fight  for  at  home,' '  &o 583 

Epigram.    "The  World  is  a  Bundle  of  Hay"...  583 

The  Charity  Ball 583 

Epigram  on  my  Wedding  Day 584 

OnmyThirty-tliirdBirthDay 584 

Epigram  on  the  Brasien^  Company 584 


PAOB 

Martial,  Lib.  L  Epist  1 584 

Bowles  and  CampbeU 584 

Epigrams  on  Lord  Castlereagh 584 

Epitaph  on  Lord  Castlereagh 584 

JohnKeals 584 

TheConquest.    A  Fragment 584 

To  Mr.  Murray.    "  For  Orford  and  for  Walde- 

grave,"  &C. 584 

The  Irish  Avatar 585 

Stanzas  written  on  the  Road  between  Florence 

and  Pisa 586 

Stanzas  to  a  Hindoo  Air 587 

Impromptu.    "  Beneath  Bleesington's  Eyes"  ...  587 

To  the  Countess  of  KesBington 587 

Stanzas  inscribed—"  On  this  Day  I  complete  my 

Thirty-sixth  Year" 587 

DON  JUAN. 

Preface 588 

Testimonibs  OF  Authors....      588 

Dedication 598 

Preface  to  Cantos  VI.  Vn.  Vin 676 

Letter  to  the  Editor  of  my  "Grandmother's 

Review" 803 

Some  Observations  upon  "  Remarks  on  the  First 
and  Second  Cantos  of  Don  Juan,"  in  Black- 
wood's Magazine 805 

Appendix 771 


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CHBONOLOGY  OP  LORD  BIRON^S  LIFE  AND  WORKS. 


M«y 


Oct 


Jul 

Not. 


Oct 


Sepc 


M»y 


July 

Sefl 
Oct 


1788. 
Si.    Bora,  In  HoUet-street,  London. 

1790  — (eUt  2.) 
Taken  by  his  mother  to  Aberdeen!. 

1798  — (10.) 
19.    Succeeds  to  the  (kiDily  title. 
Blade  a  ward  of  chancery. 

Bemoved  ftom  Aberdeen  to  Newstead  Abbey 
Ptaced  nnder  the  care  of  an  empiric  at  Nottbgham  for 
the  core  of  his  lameness. 

1799  — (11.) 

Bonofved  to  London,  and  plaoed  nnder  the  care  of  Dr. 

BaUUe. 
Becomes  the  pnpU  of  Dr.  Glennle  at  Dnlwich. 

1800— (12.) 
Is  sent  to  Harrow  School. 

1803  — (15.) 
Passes  the  vacation  at  Nottlncham  and  Annesley.—* 
And  foms  an  attachment  to  Miss  Chaworth. 

1805  — (17.) 
Leaves  Hanow  for  Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 

1806— (18.) 
Prepares  a  collection  of  his  Poems  for  the  pfess. 
Prinuavolnmeof  hisPoems;  bat,  at  the  entreaty  of  a 
firtend,  destroys  the  edition. 

1807— (19.) 
Publishes  **  Hoars  of  Idleness.**    See  Fkc  Similet, 

NO.L 
Begins  an  epic,  to  be  entitled  '^Bosworth  Field.**— And 

writes  part  of  a  noveL 

1808  — (20.) 

I  Passes  his  time  between  the  dissipations  of  Cambridge 

I      aadLoodon. 
Takes  up  his  residence  at  Newstead.— Forms  the  de- 
sign or  vlaltiaff  India.— Encaged  In  preparing  **£ng> 
Ush  Bards  and  Scotch  Benewers**  tot  the  press. 

1809  — (21.) 

S9.    His  comlDg  of  age  celebrated  at  Newstead. 
13w   Takes  his  seat  in  the  Honse  of  Lords. 
5.    PabUshes  *«£i^j^h  Bards  and  Scotch  Beilew- 

Engsfed  In  preparing  a  second  edition  of  '*  English 
Bards**  for  the  press. 

IL  Lcaires  London  on  his  travels,  accompanied  by 
Mr.  Hobhoose. 

30.  Writes,  on  board  the  Lisbon  packet,  **Hasia! 
Hodgson,  we  are  going  !**  . 

SL    Sails  ftom  Falmonth. 

7.    Lands  at  Lisbon.— 17. 
and  Cadis. 

6.  Arrives  at  Gibialtar.— It.  Takes  his  departore  for 
Malta. 

1.  Lands  at  Malta.— 14.  Writes  <*  As  o*er  the  cold  se- 
pulchral stone.**— *" Oh,  Lady!  when  I  left  the 
shore.**— 91.  Leaves  Malta.— tt.  Lands  at  Prevesa. 

L  Proceeds  to  Solara,  Arta,  and  Joannini.— 0.  Leaves 
ioannini  for  Zita.— Composes,  daring  a  thander- 
sienn,  *«  Chill  and  mirk  to  the  nigbtly  blast.**— 
U.  Beaches  l^epaleen.— IS.    Is  introduced  to  All 


Leaves  LUbon  for  Seville 


Nov. 


Jan.  . 
Feb. 

March 

April 
May 

Jane. 

Jaly 

Aug.  J 
Sept.  J 
Oct  ) 

Jan. 
Feb. 

March 

May. 

Jaly. 
Aag. 
Oct 

Dec 

Jan. 

Feb. 

Mar. 


April 
Sept 
Oct 
Nov. 


Pacha.— 46.  Betams  to  Joannini.— 31.  Begins  the 
first  canto  of  *'  Childe  Harold.'* 

3.  Proceeds  by  sea  to  Prevesa.— 10.  Driven  on  the 
coast  of  SulL— 13.  Writes,  in  passing  the  Ambracian 

Slf,  "ThroQgh  cloudless  skies,  in  silvery  sheen.'*— 
.  Sails  down  the  galf  of  Arta.— 14.  Reaches  Utral- 
key.— 15.  Travenws  Acamania.— 31.  Reaches  Btlsso- 
longhi.— And,  35.  Patras. 

4.  Leaves  Patras.— 14.  Passes  across  the  gnlf  of  Le- 
panto.— 18.  Visits  Monnt  Pamassus,  Castri,  and  Del- 
phL— 23.  Thebes.— 35.  Arrives  at  Athens. 

1810  — (iBtat22.) 
Spends  ten  weeks  in  vtolting  the  monaments  of  Athens ; 
making  occasional  excnrslons  to  several  parts  of  At- 
tica.—Writes,  ''The  spell  U  broke,  the  charm  Is 
flown  I"—**  Lines  in  the  Travellws*  Book  at  Orcho- 
menas.'*— And  **  Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part" 

5.  Leaves  Athens  for  Smyrna.— 7.  Visits  the  ruins  ef 
Ephesos.— 28.  Concludes,  at  Smyrna,  the  second 
canto  of  "Childe  Hhrold.** 

11.  Leaves  Smyrna  for  Constantinople.— Visito  the 
Troad. 

0.  Writes  **  Lines  after  swimming  ftom  Sestos  to 
Abydos." — 14.  Arrives  at  Constanunople. 

Biakes  an  Excorsloa  throogh  the  Bosphoros  to  the 

Black  Sea  and  Cyanean  Symplegades. 
14  Departs  Oom  Constantinople^— 19.  Reaches  Athens. 

— VUlts  Corinth. 

Makes  a  toor  of  the  Morea,  and  vtolts  Velay  Pacha.— 
Returns  to  Athens. 

1811  — (23.) 

Takes  up  hto  residence  at  the  Franciscan  Convent 
Athens.- Writes  **  Dear  object  of  defeated  care  !'* 

Writes  *•  filtns  of  the  Greeks,  arise  J*'—"  I  enter  thy  gar- 
den of  roses."- And  **  Remarks  on  the  Romaic  or 
modem  Greek  Language." 

12.  Writes  "Hints  from  Horace.*'— 17.  "The  Curse 
of  Minerva.**— And  ''Lines  on  Parting.** 

Leaves  Athens  for  Malta.— 16.  Writes  "Epitaph  for 

Joseph  Blackett'*— And,  20.  "  Farewell  to  Malta.** 
Returns  to  England. 

1.  Death  of  his  Mother. 

11.  Writes  EpisUe  to  a  Friend,  "Oh!  banish  care- 
such  ever  be.**— And  Stanzas  to  Thyrza,  "  Without  a 
stone  to  mark  the  spot" 

6.  Writes  "  Away,  away,  ye  notes  of  wo  !** 

1812— (24.) 

Writes  "  One  struggle  more,  and  I  am  ftee  !**—*•  When 
time,  or  soon  or  late,  shall  bring.**— "  And  thou  art 
dead,  as  yonng  as  foir.** 

87.  Makes  his  first  Speech  In  the  House  of  Lords.— 
39.  Publishes  the  first  two  cantos  of  "  Childe  Har- 
old.'* 

Commlto  a  new  edition  of  "  English  Bards,**  Ate,  to 
the  flames. — Writes  "  If  somedmes  in  the  haunts  of 
men." — "On  a  Oomelian  Heart  which  was  broken." 
— "  Lines  to  a  Lady  weeping.**— And  "The  Chain  I 
gave !»' 

19.  Writes  "  Lines  on  a  blank  leaf  of  The  Pleasures 
ofMemorv." 

Writes  "  Address  on  the  Opening  of  Drnry  Lane  The- 
atre.** 

Writes  "The  Waltz;  an  Apostrophic  Hymn."- And, 
"  A  Parenthetical  Address  by  Dr.  Plagiary." 

Writes  "Address  to  Time."— And,  "Thou  art  not 
fkise,  but  thou  art  fickle !" 


10 


CHRONOLOGY. 


1813  — (aetatSS.) 
Jan.     Writes  "  Remember  him  whom  passlon*t  power.** 
Mnr.     Publishes  "The  Waltz"  anonymoosly. 
May.     Pablishes  "The  Giaoar.**    See  Fhc  Similet,  No.  II. 
July.     Projects  a  journey  to  Abyssinia. 
Bept     Writes  "  When  from  the  Heart  where  Sorrow  sits.** 
Nov.     Is  an  tinsuccessfnl  suitor  for  the  hand  of  Miss  Bfil- 

banke. 
Dec.     2.    Publishes   "The  Bride  of  Abydos."— 13.  Writes 

"The  Devil's  Drive."— 17.  And  "Two  Sonneu  to 

Gcnevni."— 18.  Begins  "The  Corsair."— 31.  Finishes 

"The  Corsair.** 

1814— (26.) 
Feb.      Writes  "  Windsor  Poetics.*' 
April.   10.  Writes  "Ode  tn  Napoleon  Bonaparte.**— Resolves 

to  write  no  more  poetry,  and  to  suppress  all  he  had 

ever  written. 
May.    Besins  "  Lara.**- Writes  "  I  speak  not,  I  trace  not"— 

And  "  Address  to  be  recited  at  the  Caledonian  Meet- 
ing." 
Aug.     Publishes  "  Lara.**— Writes   **  Condolatory  Verses  to 

Lady  Jersey.*' 
Sept     Makes  a  second  proposal  for  the  hand  of  Miss  Mil- 

banke,  and  is  accepted. 
Oct     Writes  "  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Sir  Peter  Parker.**— 

And  "  Lines  to  Belshazzar.** 
Dec.     Writes  "  Hebrew  Melodies." 

1815  — (27) 
Jan.     9.    Marries  Miss  Milbanke.    See  Fhe  SimiU*,  No.  HI. 
Ft-b.      Writes  "There  be  none  of  Beauty's  Dai'jhters.** 
Mar.     Writes  "  Lines  on  Napoleon  Bonaparte's  Escape  from 

Elba." 
July.    Begins  *♦  The  Siege  of  Corinth.**- And  writes  •'  There's 

not  a  Joy  the  World  can  give."— And  "  We  do  not 

curse  thee,  Watertoo." 
Aug.     Writes  "  Must  thou  go.  my  glorious  Chief?**—"  Star  of 

the  Brave." — And  "  Napoleon's  Farewell.** 
Dec.      10.    Birth  of  his  daughter,  Augusta  Ada. 

1816— (28.) 

Jan.      Publishes  "The  Siege  of  Corinth.*' 

Feb.  Publishes  "  Parisina.**— Lady  Byron  adopts  the  resola- 
Uon  of  separating  fW>m  him. 

Mar.  17.  Writes  "Fare  thee  well!  and  If  forever.**— And, 
S9.  A  Sketch,  "  Bom  in  the  garret** 

April  16.  Writes  "-When  all  around  grew  drear  and  dark.**— 
95.  Takes  a  last  leave  of  his  native  country.— Proceeds, 
through  Flanders  and  by  the  Rhine,  to  Switzerland. 

May.    Begins  the  third  canto  of  "  Chltde  Harold.** 

June.  Writes  "The  Prisoner  of  Chillon"  at  Ouchy.  near 
Lausanne  —Takes  up  his  abode  at  the  Campagne 
Diodati,  near  Geneva. 

July.  Finishes  the  third  canto  of  *'Childe  Harold.*'— Writes 
"Monody  on  the  Death  of  Sheridan.*'— Stanzas  to 
Augusta,  "Though  the  Day  of  my  Destiny."— "The 
Dream.**  —  "  Darkness.*'  —  "  Churchill's  Grave."  — 
"  Prometheus.*'-"  Could  I  remount."— Epistle  to  Au- 
gusta, "My  Sister,  my  sweet  Sister."- And,  "Sonnet 
to  Lake  Leman.** 

Sept  Makes  a  tour  of  the  Bernese  Alps.- Writes  "Lines  on 
hearing  that  Lady  Byron  was  ill."— And  begins 
"  Manfred." 

Oct      Leaves  Switzerland  for  Italy. 

N;v  Takes  up  his  residence  at  Venice.— Translates  '^  Ro- 
mance Muy  Doloroso,**  &c. ;  and  "  Sonetto  dl  Vitto- 
relll.'*— Writes  "  Lines  on  the  Bust  of  Helen  by  Ca- 
nova.'*—"  Bright  be  the  Place  of  my  Soul.**— And 
**They  say  that  Hope  is  Happiness."— Studiat  the 
Armenian  language. 

1817— (29.) 
Feb.     FiaUhes  "Manfred." 
Mar.     Translates,  from  the  Armenian,  a  Correspondence  be> 

tween  St  Paul  and  the  Corinthians. 
April.   Vlslu  Ferran  for  a  day.— 90.  Writes  **The  Lament  of 

Taaso** 


May. 
June. 
Oct 


Vlslu  Rome  for  a  few  days  —5.  Writes  theie  a  new 

third  act  to  "  Manfted.'* 
Begins,  at  Venice,  the  fourth  canto  of  **Chllde  Har 

old." 
Writes  "  Beppo.** 

1818  — (ietat30) 
July.    Writes  "Ode  to  Venice.** 
Sept    Finishes  the  first  canto  of  "  Don  Joan.** 
Oct      Finishes  "Mazeppa." 
Dec.     13.  Begins  the  second  canto  of  "  Don  Juan.** 

1819  — (31.) 
Jan.     90.  Finishes  the  sec/md  canto  of  "  Don  Juan.** 
April.  Commences  an  acquaintance  with  the  Countess  Guic- 

cioll.— Writes  "Stanzas  to  the  Po.'* 
Aug.     Writes  "Letter  to  the  Editor  of  my  Grandmother's 

Review."— And  "Sonnet  to  George  the  Fourth." 
Nov.     Finishes  the  third  and  fourth  cantos  of  "  Don  Joan." 
Dec     Removes  to  Ravenna. 

1820— (32.) 
Jan.     Is  domesticated  with  the  Countess  Gulcdoll. 
Feb.      Translates  the  first  canto  of  "  Morgante  Ma^slore.** 
Mar.     Writes  "  The  Prophecy  of  Dante."— Translates  "  Fran- 
cesca  of  Rimini.**- And  writes  "  Observations  upon 
an  Article  in  Blackwood's  Magazine." 
April    4.    Begins  "  Marino  FuUero." 
July     16.  Finishes  "  Marino  Faliero." 
Oct      16  Begins  the  flah  canto  of  "  Don  Joan.** 
Nov.     90.  Finishes  the  fifth  canto  of   "Don  Juan.**— And 
writes  "The  Blues;  a  Literary  Eclogue.** 

1821  — (33) 
Jan.      13.  Begins  "  Sardanapalns." 

Feb.     7.    Writes  *«  Letter  to  John  Morray,  Esq.,  oo  Bowles*k 

Strictures  upon  Pone.** 
Mar.     95.    Writes  "Second  Letter  to  John  Morray,  Esq.,** 

iLC. 

May     17.  Finishes  "Sardanapalns.** 

June     11.  Begins  "  The  Two  Foscarl." 

July     10.  Finishes  "The  Two  Foscari.**— 16.  Begins  "Gain ; 

a  Mystery.'* 
Sept    9.    FlnUhes  " Cain.**— Writes  "Vision  of  Jodgment** 
Oct.      Writes  "Heaven  and  Earth;  a  Mystery." 
Nov.     Removes  to  Pisa.— la  Begins  **  Werner.**— And  "The 

Deformed  Transformed.'* 

1822  — (34.) 
Jan.     90.  Finishes  "  Werner.** 

Feb      Writes  the  siith,  seventh,  and  eighth  cantos  of  "Don 

Juan." 
Aug.     Finishes  "The  Defonned  Transformed.**— Writes  the 

ninth,  tenth,  and  eleventh  cantos  of  "Don  Joan." 
Sept     Removes  to  Genoa. 

1823  — (35.) 
Jan.      Writes  "  The  Age  of  Bronze." 

Feb.     Writes  "The  Island.*'— And  more  cantos  of  "Don 

Juan." 
April.  Turns  his  views  towards  Greece. 
May.    Receives  a  communication  from  the  Greek  Conunittee 

sitting  in  London. 
July     14.    Sails  for  Greece. 

Aug.  i  Reaches  Anostoli.— Makes  an  ezcorsion  to  Ithaca.— 
Dec  (     Waiu  at  Cephalonia  the  arrival  of  the  Greek  fleet 

1824— (36.) 
Jan.     5.    Arrives  at  Mlssolonghl.— 23.   Writes  "Lines  on 

completing  my  Thirty-sixth  Year.*'— 30.  Is  appointed 

commander  in-chief  of  an  expedition  against  Le* 

panta 
Feb.     15.    Is  seized  with  a  convQlsive  fit     Bee  FheSimihi 

No.  IV. 
April  0.    RU  last  illness. 
April  19.  His  Dbatb 


11 


THE 


POETICAL     WORKS 


OF 


LOED  BYRON. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

^  Komatint. 


LMniTcrs  est  one  esp^ce  de  livre,  dont  on  n'a  lu  que  la  oremiire  page  ({uand  on  n*a  vu  que  son  pays.  Pen 
ai  fieuiJIet^  iin  assez  grand  nombre,  que  j*ai  trouv6  ^galement  mauvaises.  Cet  examen  ne  m*a  point  6t6 
in&uctueux.  Je  haissais  ma  patrie.  Toutes  les  impertinences  des  peuples  divers,  parmi  lesquels  j*ai  v6cu, 
m*ont  reconcili^  avec  elle.  Quand  je  n'aurais  tir6  d'autre  b^n^fice  de  mes  voyages  que  celui-lA,  je  n'en  regret- 
terais  ni  les  frais  ni  les  fatigues.  Li  Cosmopolits.i 


PREFACE 

[to  the  mm  and  second  cantos.] 

The  followm^  poem  was  written,  for  the  most  part, 
amidst  the  scenes  which  it  attempts  to  describe.  It 
was  begmi  in  Albania ;  and  the  parts  relative  to  Spain 
and  Porto^I  were  composed  from  the  author's  ob- 
servations in  those  countries.*  Thus  much  it  may 
be  necessary  to  state  for  the  correctness  of  the  de- 
scriptions. The  scenes  attempted  to  be  sketched  are 
in  Spain,  Portugal,  Epirus,  Acamania,  and  Greece. 
Hiere,  for  the  present,  the  poem  stops :  its  reception 
win  determine  whether  the  author  may  venture  to 
conduct  his  readers  to  the  capital  of  the  East,  through 
Ionia  and  Phrygia :  these  two  Cantos  are  merely  ex- 
perimental. 

A  fictitious  character  is  introduceu  for  the  sake  of 
fiving  some  connection  to  the  piece ;  which,  however, 
makes  no  pretensions  to  regu'irity.  It  has  been 
soggested  to  me  by  friends,  on  wnose  opinions  I  set  a 
high  value,  that  in  this  fictitious  character,  **  Childe 
Harold,"  I  may  incur  the  suspicion  of  having  intend- 
ed some  real  personage :  this  I  beg  leave,  once  for  all, 
to  disclaini — Harold  is  the  child  of  imagination,  for 
the  parpose  I  have  stated.  In  some  very  trivial  par- 
ticniuB,  and  those  merely  local,  there  might  be  grounds 
fir  such  a  notion ;  but  in  the  main  points,  I  should 
hope,  none  whatever. 

It  is  almost  snperflaous  to  mention  that  the  ap- 
pellaiian  "ChUde,"  as  "Childe  Waters,"  "Childe 


*  [Par  IL  de  Montbion,  Paris,  1798. 
where  calls  it' 
fcppaocy.'») 


Lord  Byron  some- 
an  amusing  little  volume,  f^  of  French 


Childere,"  &c.,  is  used  as  more  consonant  with  the 
old  structure  of  versification  which  I  have  adopted. 
The  "Good  Night,"  in  the  beginning  of  the  first 
canto,  was  suggested  by  "  Lowl  Maxwell's  Good 
Night,"  in  the  Border  Minstrelsy,  edited  by  Mr. 
Scott 

With  the  different  poems  which  have  been  publish- 
ed on  Spanish  subjects,  there  may  be  found  some 
slight  coincidence  in  the  first  part,  which  treats  of  the 
Peninsula,  but  it  can  only  be  casual ;  as,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  a  few  concluding  stanzas,  the  whole  of  this 
poem  was  written  in  the  Lisvant. 

The  stanza  of  Spenser,  according  to  one  of  our 
most  successful  poets,  admits  of  every  variety.  Dr. 
Beattie  makes  the  following  observation : — ^*  Not 
long  ago,  I  began  a  poem  in  the  style  and  stanza  of 
Spenser,  in  which  I  propose  to  give  full  scope  to  my 
inclination,  and  be  eitlier  droll  or  pathetic,  descrip- 
tive or  sentimental,  tender  or  satirical,  as  the  humor 
strikes  me ;  for,  if  I  mistake  not,  the  measure  which 
I  have  adopted  admits  equally  of  all  these  kinds  of 
composition."* — Strengthened  in  my  opinion  by  such 
authority,  and  by  the  example  of  some  in  the  highest 
order  of  Italian  poets,  I  shall  make  no  apology  for  at- 
tempts at  similar  variations  in  the  following  composi- 
tion; satisfied  that,  if  they  are  unsuccessful,  their 
failure  must  be  in  the  execution  rather  than  in  the 
design,  sanctioned  by  the  practice  of  Ariosto,  Thom- 
son, and  Beattie. 

London^  February^  181S. 


>  [**  Byron,  Joannini  in  Albania.  Begun  Oct.  Slst,  1809.  Ckm 
eluded  Canto  2d,  Smyrna,  March  28th,  1810.  Byron.''— M8  ] 
*  Beattie's  Letters. 


12 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


ADDITION  TO  THE  PREFACE. 

I  HATE  now  waited  till  almost  all  oar  periodical 
journals  have  distributed  their  usual  portion  of  criti- 
cism. To  the  justice  of  the  generality  of  their  criti- 
cisms I  have  nothing  to  object ;  it  would  ill  become 
me  to  quarrel  with  their  very  slight  degree  of  censure, 
when,  perhaps,  if  they  had  been  less  kind  they  had 
been  more  candid.  Ketummg,  therefore,  to  all  and 
each  my  best  thauks  for  their  liberality,  on  one  point 
alone  shall  I  venture  an  observation.  Amongst  the 
many  objections  justly  urged  to  the  very  indmerent 
character  of  the  "  vagrant  Childe,"  (whom,  notwith- 
standing many  hints  to  the  contrary,  I  still  maintain 
to  be  a  fictitious  personage,)  it  has  been  stated,  that 
besides  the  anachronism,  he  is  very  unknightly,  as 
the  times  of  the  Knights  were  times  of  Love,  Honor, 
and  so  forth.  Now,  it  so  happens  that  the  good  old 
times,  when  **  Tamour  du  bon  vieux  tems,  I'amour  an- 
tique" flourished,  were  the  most  profligate  of  all  possi- 
ble centuries.  Those  who  have  any  doubts  on  this 
subject  may  consult  Sainte-Palaye,  passim,  and  more 
particularly  vol.  ii.  p.  69.*  The  vows  of  chivalry  were 
no  better  kept  than  any  other  vows  whatsoever  ;  and 
the  songs  of  the  Troubadours  were  not  more  decent, 
and  certainly  were  much  less  refined,  than  those  of 
Ovid.  The  "  Cours  d*amour,  parlemens  d'amour,  ou 
de  court^ie  et  de  gentilesse"  had  much  more  of  love 
than  of  courtesy  or  gentleness.  See  Roland  on  the 
same  subject  with  Sainte-Palaye.  Whatever  other 
objection  may  be  urged  to  that  most  unaraiable  per- 
sonage Childe  Harold,  he  was  so  far  perfectly  knight- 
ly in  his  attributes — "  No  waiter,  but  a  knight  tem- 
plar.'*«  By  the  by,  I  fear  that  Sir  Tristrem  and  Sir 
Lancelot  were  no  better  than  they  should  be,  although 
very  poetical  personages  and  true  knights  '*  sans  peur," 
though  not  *<sans  reproche."  If  the  story  of  the 
institution  of  the  "  Garter"  be  not  a  fable,  the  knights 
of  that  order  have  for  several  centuries  borae  the  beulge 
of  a  Countess  of  Salisbury,  of  indifferent  memory,  bo 
much  for  chivalry.  Burke  need  not  have  regretted 
that  its  da>^  are  over,  though  Marie-Antoinette  was 
quite  as  chaste  as  most  of  those  in  whose  honors 
lances  were  shivered,  and  knights  unhorsed. 

Before  the  days  of  Bayard,  and  down  to  those  of 
Sir  Joseph  Banks,  (the  most  chaste  and  celebrated  of 
ancient  and  modem  times,)  few  exceptions  will  be 
found  to  this  statement ;  and  I  fear  a  little  investiga- 
tion wiH  teach  us  not  to  regret  these  monstrous  mum- 
meries of  the  middle  ages. 

I  now  Vave  '*  Childe  Harold"  to  live  his  day,  such 
as  he  is ;  it  had  been  more  agreeable,  and  certainly 
more  easy,  to  have  drawn  an  amiable  character.  It 
had  been  easy  to  varnish  over  his  faults,  to  make  him 


•  [*'  Qu'on  lise  dans  TAuteur  du  roman  de  Gerard  de 
Roussillon,  en  Provencal,  les  details  tr^s-circonstanc^s  dans 
lesquels  U  entre  sur  la  reception  faite  par  le  Comte  Gerard 
u  raralv»««'uleur  du  roi  Charles ;  on  y  verra  des  particularit^s 
singulii>re8,  qui  doiment  une  ctrange  id6e  des  roceurs  et  de 
la  politesse  ae  ces  siecies  aussi  corrompu8  qu'ignorans."— 
Mimoirea  sur  PAncienne  Chevalerie,  par  M.  de  la  Cume  de 
Samte-Palaye,  Paris^781,  loc.  «i.] 

«  The  Rovers,  or  the  Double  Arrangement.— {By  Canning 
and  Frere ;  first  published  in  the  Anti-jacobin,  or  Weekly 
Examiner.J 

•  [In  one  of  his  early  poems—"  Childish  Recollections," 
Lord  Byron  compares  himself  to  the  Athenian  misanthrope, 
Of  whose  bitter  apothegms  map y  itte  upon  record,  though 
BO  authentic  particulars  of  his  life  have  come  down  to  us  ;— 

•*  Weary  of  love,  of  life,  devour'd  with  spleen, 
I  rest  a  perfect  Timon,  not  nineteen,"  Ac.] 


do  more  and  ezptess  less ;  but  he  never  was  intended 
as  an  example,  further  than  to  show,  that  early  per- 
vexsion  of  micd  and  morals  leads  to  satiety  of  past 
pleasures  and  disappointment  in  new  ones,  and  that 
even  the  beauties  or  nature,  and  the  stimulus  of  travel, 
(except  ambition,  the  most  powerftd  of  all  excite- 
ments,) are  lost  on  a  soul  so  constituted,  or  rather 
misdirected.  Had  I  proceeded  with  the  poem,  this 
character  would  have  deepened  as  he  drew  to  the 
close ;  for  the  outline  which  I  once  meant  to  fill  up 
for  him  was,  with  some  exceptions,  the  sketch  of  a 
modem  Timon,*  periiaps  a  poetical  Zehico.^ 
1818. 


TO  lANTHE.* 


Nor  in  those  clhnes  where  I  have  late  been  straying, 
Though  Beauty  long  hath  there  been  matchlea 

deemed; 
Not  in  those  visions  to  the  heart  displaying 
Forms  which  it  sighs  but  to  have  only  dream*d, 
Hath  aught  like  mee  in  truth  or  fancy  seem'd : 
Nor,  having  seen  thee,  shall  I  vainly  seek 
To  paint  those  charms  which  varied  as  they  beam*d — 
To  such  as  see  thee  not  my  words  were  weak ; 
To  those  who  gaze  on  thee  what  language  could  they 

speak? 

Ah !  mayst  thou  ever  be  what  now  thou  art. 
Nor  unbeseem  the  promise  of  thy  spring. 
As  fair  in  form,  as  warm  yet  pure  in  heart, 
Love's  image  upon  earth  without  his  wing. 
And  guileless  beyond  Hope's  imagining ! 
And  surely  she  who  now  so  fondly  rears 
Thy  youth,  in  thee,  thus  houriy  luightening, 
Beholds  the  rainbow  of  her  future  years, 
Before  whose  heavenly  hues  all  sorrow  disoppean. 

Yoimg  Peri*  of  the  West ! — *tis  well  for  me 
My  years  already  doubly  number  thine ; 
My  loveless  eye  unmoved  may  gaze  on  thee, 
And  safely  view  thy  ripening  beauties  shine ; 
Happy,  I  ne'er  shall  see  them  in  decline ; 
Happier,  that  while  all  younger  hearts  shall  bleed. 
Mine  shall  escape  the  doom  thine  eyes  assign 
To  those  whose  admiration  shall  succeed. 
But  mix'd  with  pangs  to  Love's  even  loveliest  houn 
decreed. 


« [It  was  Dr.  Moore^s  object,  in  this  powerful  romance, 
(now  unjustly  neglected,)  to  trace  the  fatal  effects  resulting 
nrom  a  fond  mother's  unconditional  compliance  with  the 
humors  and  passions  of  an  only  child.  With  high  advan- 
tages of  person,  birth,  fortune,  and  ability,  Zeluco  is  repre- 
sented as  miserable,  throu^  every  scene  of  life,  owing  to 
the  spirit  of  unbridled  self-mdulgence  thus  pampered  in  in- 
fancy.] 

» [The  Lady  Charlotte  Harley,  second  daughter  of  Ed- 
ward fifth  Earl  of  Oxford,  (now  Lady  Charlotte  Bacon,)  in 
the  autumn  of  1812,  when  these  lines  were  addressed  to 
her,  had  not  completed  her  eleventh  year.  Mr.  Westaii's 
portrait  of  the  juvenile  beauty,  paintea  at  Lord  Bvron's  re- 
quest, is  engraved  in  "  Finden^s  Illustrations  of  the  IJtt 
and  Works  of  Lord  Byron."] 

•  [Peri,  the  Persian  term  for  a  beautiful  intermediate 
order  of  beings,  is  generally  supposed  to  be  another  form 
of  cur  own  word  Faity.] 


ClNTO   I. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


18 


Oh !  let  that  eye,  which,  wild  as  the  GazeUeV 
Now  bci^tly  bold  or  beaatifuUy  shy, 
Win*  as  it  wanders,  dazzles  where  it  dwells, 
dance  o'er  this  page,  nor  to  my  verse  deny 
That  smile  for  which  my  breast  might  vainly  si^, 
Coold  I  to  thee  be  ever  moie  than  friend : 
lliiB  much,  dear  maid,  acc<nd ;  nor  question  why 
To  one  so  young  my  strain  I  would  commend. 
Bat  bid  me  with  my  wreath  one  matchless  lily  Uend. 

Such  is  thy  name  with  this  my  verse  intwined ; 
And  long  as  kinder  eyes  a  look  shall  cast 
On  Harold's  page,  lanthe's  here  enshrined 
Shall  thus  be  fint  beheld,  forgotten  last : 
My  da3rs  once  number'd,  should  this  homage  past 
Attract  thy  fairy  fingers  near  the  lyre 
Of  him  who  hail'd  thee,  loveliest  as  thou  wast. 
Such  is  the  most  my  memory  may  desire ; 
Though  more  than  Hope  can  claim,  could  Friend^p 
less  require? 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


CANTO  THE  FIBST. 


Ob,  thou !  in  HeUas  deem'd  of  heavenly  birth, 
Muse  !  form'd  or  fabled  at  the  minstrel^  will ! 
Sknce  shamed  full  oft  by  later  lyres  on  earth. 
Mine  dares  not  call  thee  from  thy  sacred  hill : 
Yet  there  I've  wander'd  by  thy  vaunted  rill ; 
Yes !  sigh'd  o'er  Delphi's  long-deserted  shrine,' 
Where,  save  that  feeble  fountain,  all  is  still ; 
Nor  mote  my  shell  awake  the  weary  Nine 
To  grace  so  plain  a  tale—this  lowly  lay  of  mine.* 

IL 

Whilome  in  Albion's  isle  there  dwelt  a  youth, 
Who  ne  in  virtue's  ways  did  take  delight ; 
But  ^nt  his  days  in  riot  most  uncoum. 
And  vex'd  with  mirth  the  drowsy  ear  of  Night 
Ah,  me  I  in  sooth  he  was  a  shameless  wight, 
Sore  given  to  revel  and  ungodly  glee ; 
Few  earthly  things  found  favor  in  his  sight 
Save  concubines  and  carnal  companie, 
And  flaunting  wassailers  of  high  and  low  degree. 


>  [A  species  of  the  antelope.  "  You  have  the  eyes  of  a 
gazelle,^  Is  considered  all  over  the  East  as  the  greatest 
eomptiment  that  can  be  paid  to  a  woznan.^ 

'  The  Utile  village  of  Casth  stands  partly  on  the  site  of 
DelpbL  Along  the  path  of  the  mountain,  from  Chrysso,  are 
the  remains  of  sepvUchres  hewn  in  and  from  the  rock. 
^  One/' said  the  guide,  **  of  a  king  who  broke  his  neck  hunt- 
ing." His  majesty  had  certainly  chosen  the  fittest  spot  for 
foch  an  achievement.  A  httle  above  CHstri  is  a  cave,  sup- 
powd  the  Pythian,  of  immense  depth ;  the  upper  part  of  it  is 
^red,  and  now  a  cowhouse.  On  the  other  side  of  Castri 
rtands  a  Greek  monastery  ;  some  way  above  which  is  the 
deti  is  the  rock,  with  a  range  of  caverns  difficult  of  ascent, 
Ckd  apparently  leading  to  the  interior  of  the  mountain ; 
proUbly  to  the  Corycian  Cavern  mentioned  by  Pausanias. 
From  this  part  descend  the  fountain  and  the  "  Dews  of  Cas- 
tabe.**— {"  We  were  spriukled,**  says  Mr.  Hobhouse,  "  with 
the  spray  of  the  immortal  rill,  and  here,  if  anywhere,  should 
have  feu  the  poetic  inspiration :  we  drank  deep,  too,  of  the 
tftix^ ,  b«t— (I  can  answer  for  myselO— without  feeling 
sensible  c/i  any  extraordinary  effect.^] 


in. 

Childe  Harold^  was  he  higfat: — but  whence  his  name 
And  lineage  long,  it  suits  me  not  to  say  ; 
Suffice  it,  that  perchance  they  were  of  fame. 
And  had  been  glorious  in  another  day : 
But  one  sad  losel  soils  a  name  for  aye, 
However  mi^ty  in  the  olden  time  ; 
Nor  all  that  heralds  rake  from  coffin'd  clay, 
Nor  florid  prose,  nor  honey'd  lies  of  rhyme. 
Can  blazon  evil  deeds,  or  consecrate  a  crime 

IV. 

Childe  Harold  bask'd  him  in  the  noontide  scm, 
Disporting  there  like  any  other  fly, 
Nor  deem'd  before  his  little  day  was  done 
One  blast  might  chill  him  into  misery. 
But  long  ere  scarce  a  third  of  his  pass'd  by, 
Worse  than  adversity  the  Childe  befell ; 
He  felt  the  fulness  of  satiety : 
Then  loathed  he  in  his  native  land  to  dwell. 
Which  seem'd  to  him  more  lone  than  Eremite's  sad  cell. 

V. 

For  he  through  Sin's  long  labyrinth  had  nm. 
Nor  made  atonement  when  he  did  amiss, 
Had  sigh'd  to  many  though  he  loved  but  one, 
And  that  loved  one,  alas !  could  ne'er  be  his. 
Ah,  happy  she !  to  'scape  from  him  whose  kiss 
Had  been  pollution  unto  aught  so  chaste ; 
Who  soon  had  left  her  charms  for  vulgar  bliss. 
And  spoil'd  her  goodly  lands  to  gild  his  waste, 
Nor  calm  domestic  peace  had  ever  deign'd  to  taste. 

VI. 

And  now  Childe  Harold  was  sore  sick  at  heart. 
And  from  his  fellow  bacchanals  would  flee ; 
'Tis  said,  at  times  the  sullen  tear  would  start, 
But  Pride  congeal'd  the  drop  within  his  ee : 
Apart  he  stalk  d  in  joyless  revery, 
And  from  his  native  laud  resolved  to  go, 
And  visit  scorchnug  climes  beyond  the  sea ; 
With  pleasure  drugg'd,  he  almost  long'd  for  wo. 

And  e'en  for  change  of  scene  would  seek  the  shades 
below.* 

VII. 
The  Childe  departed  from  his  father's  hall ; 
It  was  a  vast  and  venerable  pile  ; 
So  old,  it  seemed  only  not  to  fall. 
Yet  strength  was  pillar'd  in  each  massy  aisle. 
Monastic  dome !  condemn'd  to  uses  vile  I 
Where  Superstition  once  had  made  her  den 
Now  Paphian  girls  were  known  to  sing  and  smile ; 
And  monks  might  deem  their  time  was  come  agen, 

If  ancient  tales  say  true,  nor  wrong  these  holy  men. 

*  [This  stanxa  is  not  in  the  original  MS.j 

*  ["  Childe  Huron."— MS.] 

*  [In  these  stanzas,  and  indeed  throughout  his  works,  we 
must  not  accept  too  literally  Lord  Byron*s  testimony  against 
himself— he  took  a  morbid  pleasure  in  darkening  every 
shadow  of  his  self-portraiture.  His  intenor  at  Newstead 
had,  no  doubt,  been,  in  some  points,  loose  and  irregular 
enough  ;  but  it  certainly  never  exhibited  any  thing  of  the 
profuse  and  Satanic  luxury  which  the  language  in  the  text 
might  seem  to  indicate.  In  fact,  the  narrowness  of  his 
means  at  the  time  the  verses  refer  to  would  alone  have  pre- 
cluded this.  His  household  economy,  while  he  remained 
at  the  abbey,  is  known  to  have  been  conducted  on  a  very 
moderate  scale ;  and,  besides,  his  usual  companions,  though 
far  from  being  averse  t9,  convivial  indulgences,  were  not 
only,  as  Mr.  Moore  says,  "  of  habits  and  tastes  .oo  intel- 
lectual for  mere  vulgar  debauchery,**  but  assuredly,  quite 
incapable  of  playing  the  parts  of  flatterers  ami  parasites.} 


14 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


VIII. 
Yet  oft-times  in  hir  maddest  mirthful  mood    [brow, 
Strange  pangs  would  flash  along  Childe  Harold's 
As  if  Uie  memory  of  some  deadly  feud 
Or  disappointed  passion  lurk'd  belo^' : 
But  thb  none  knew,  nor  haply  cared  to  know ; 
For  his  was  not  that  open,  artless  soul 
That  feels  relief  by  bidding  sorrow  flow. 
Nor  sought  he  friend  to  counsel  or  condole, 
Whate'er  &is  grief  mote  be,  which  he  could  not  controL 

IX. 
And  none  did  love  him — though  to  hall  and  bower 
He  gathered  revellers  from  far  and  near, 
He  knew  them  flatterers  of  the  festal  hour ; 
The  heartless  parasites  of  present  cheer. 
Yea !  non«^  did  love  him — ^not  his  lemans  dear— 
But  pomp  and  power  alone  are  woman's  care. 
And  where  these  are  light  Eros  finds  a  feere  ; 
Maidens,  like  moths,  are  ever  caught  by  glare. 

And  Mammon  wins  his  way  where  Seraphs  might 
despair. 

X. 
Childe  Harold  had  a  mother — ^not  forgot. 
Though  parting  from  that  mother  he  did  shun ; 
A  sister  whom  he  loved,'  but  saw  her  not 
Before  his  weary  pilgrimage  begun : 
If  friends  he  had,  he  bade  adieu  to  none. 
Yet  deem  not  thence  his  breast  a  breast  of  steel  :* 
Ye,  who  have  known  what  'tis  to  dote  upon 
A  few  dear  objects,  will  in  sadness  feel 

Such  partings  break  the  heart  they  fondly  hope  to  heal 

XI. 

His  house,  his  home,  his  heritage,  his  lands. 
The  laughing  dames  in  whom  he  did  delight,* 
Whose  large  blue  eyes,  fair  locks,  and  snowy  hands, 
Might  shake  the  saintship  of  an  anchorite. 
And  long  had  fed  his  youthful  appetite ; 
His  goblets  brimm'd  with  every  costly  wine, 

'    And  all  that  mote  to  luxury  invite. 
Without  a  sigh  he  left  to  cross  the  brine,         [line* 

And  traverse  Paynim  shores,  and  pass  Earth's  central 

XII. 

The  sails  were  fill'd,  and  fair  the  light  winds  Uew, 
As  glad  to  waft  him  from  his  native  home ; 
And  fast  the  white  rocks  faded  from  his  view, 
And  soon  were  lost  in  circumambient  foam : 
And  then,  it  may  be,  of  his  wish  to  roam 
Repented  he,  but  in  his  bosom  slept 
The  silent  thought,  nor  from  his  lips  did  come 
One  word  of  wul,  whilst  othen  sate  and  wept, 
And  to  the  reckless  gales  unmanly  moaning  kept 


t  r"  Yet  deem  oiiu  not  from  this  with  breast  of  steel.**— 
MS.] 
s  [**  His  house,  his  home,  his  vassals,  and  his  lands. 
The  Dalilahs/*  &c.— MS.] 

*  [Lord  Byron  originally  intended  to  visit  India.] 

*  tSee  ♦'  Lord  Maxwell's  Good  Night,"  in  Scott's  Min- 
strelsy of  the  Scottish  Border.  Poetical  Works, vol.  ii.  p.  141, 
ed.  1834.—"  Adieu,  madam,  my  mother  dear,"  Ac— MS.] 

»  fThis  "little  page"  was  Robert  Rushton,  the  son  of  one 
of  Lord  Byron's  tenants.  "  Robert  I  take  with  me,"  sasrs 
the  poet,  in  a  letter  to  his  mother ;  "  I  like  him,  because, 
liice  mvself.  he  seems  a  friendless  animal :  tell  his  father  he 
is  well,  and  doing  well."] 

*  L"  Our  best  goss-hawk  can  hardly  fly 

So  merrily  along."— MS.] 
'  ("  Oh,  master  dear  !  I  do  not  cry 

From  fear  of  waves  or  wind.*'— MS.] 

*  [Seeing  that  the  boy  was  "  sorrowful"  at  the  separation 
trom  his  parents.  Lord  Bjrron,  on  reaching  GibraUar,  sent 
him  back  to  England  under  the  care  of  his  old  servant  Joe 


XIIL 

But  when  the  sun  was  sinkmg  in  the  sea 
He  seized  his  harp,  which  he  at  times  could  ftring, 
And  strike,  albeit  with  untaught  melody, 
When  deem'd  he  no  strange  ear  was  listening: 
And  now  his  fingers  o'er  it  he  did  fling) 
And  tuned  his  farewell  in  the  dim  twuight 
While  flew  the  yessel  on  her  snowy  wing» 
And  fleeting  shores  receded  from  his  ngfat, 
Thus  to  the  elements  he  pour'd  his  last  «  Good  Night*** 

**  AoiBU,  adieu !  my  native  shore 

Fades  o'er  the  waters  blue ; 
The  Night'Wuids  sigh,  the  breaken  roar, 

And  shrieks  the  wild  sea-mew. 
Yon  Sun  that  sets  upon  the  sea 

We  follow  in  his  flight ; 
Farewell  awhile  to  hun  and  thee, 

My  native  Laud — Good  Night ! 

**  A  few  short  hours  and  He  will  rise 

To  give  the  morrow  birth ; 
And  I  shall  hail  the  main  and  skies, 

But  not  my  mother  earth. 
Deserted  is  my  own  good  hall. 

Its  hearth  is  desolate ; 
Wild  weeds  are  gathering  on  the  waU ; 

My  dog  howls  at  the  gate. 

"  Come  hither,  hither,  my  little  page  !* 

Why  dost  thou  weep  and  wail  ? 
Or  dost  thou  dread  the  billow's  rage, 

Or  tremble  at  the  gale  7 
But  dash  the  tear-drop  from  thine  eye ; 

Our  ship  is  swift  and  strong: 
Our  fleetest  falcon  scarce  can  fly 

More  merrily  along.* 

*  Let  winds  be  shrill,  let  waves  roll  high, 

I  fear  not  wave  nor  wind  :^ 
Yet  marvel  not.  Sir  Childe,  that  I 

Am  sorrowful  in  mind  f 
For  I  have  from  my  father  gone, 

A  mother  whom  I  love, 
And  have  no  friend,  save  these  alone. 

But  thee— «nd  one  above. 

*  My  father  bless'd  me  fervently, 

Yet  did  not  much  complain ; 
But  sorely  will  my  mother  sigh 

Till  I  come  back  agam.' — 
"  Enough,  enough,  my  little  lad ! 

Such  tears  become  thine  eye ; 
If  I  thy  guileless  bosom  had, 

Mine  own  would  not  be  dry.* 


Murray.  "  Pray,"  he  says  to  his  mother,  "  show  the  lad 
every  kindness,  as  he  is  my  great  favorite."  He  also  wrote 
a  letter  to  the  father  of  the  boy,  which  leaves  a  most  favor- 
able impression  of  his  thoughtfiilness  and  kindliness.  **  I 
have,"  he  says,  "  sent  Robert  home,  oecause  the  country 
which  I  am  about  to  travel  through  is  in  a  state  w^hicn 
renders  it  unsafe,  particularly  for  one  so  young.  I  allow 
you  to  deduct  from  your  rent  five  and  twenty  pounds  a  year 
for  his  education,  for  three  years,  provided  I  do  not  return 
before  that  time,  and  I  desire  he  may  be  considered  as  in 
my  service.  He  has  behaved  extremely  well."] 
•  [Here  follows  in  the  MS.  :— 

"  My  Mother  is  a  high-born  dame. 
And  much  misliketh  me ; 
She  saith  my  riot  bringeth  shame 

On  all  my  ancestry : 
I  had  a  sister  once  I  ween. 

Whose  tears  perhaps  will  flow ; 
But  her  fair  face  I  have  not  seen 
For  three  long  years  and  moe.**] 


Canto  i. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


1ft 


''Come  hither,  hither,  my  stanch  yeoman,* 

Why  dott  thou  look  so  pale  7 
Or  dost  thoo  dread  a  French  foeman? 

Or  shiver  at  the  gale  ?'*— 
*Deem'8t  thou  I  tremble  for  my  life? 

Sir  Childe,  I*m  not  so  weak ; 
But  thinking  on  an  absent  wife 

Will  blanch  a  foithfnl  cheek. 

*  My  ^Mrase  and  boys  dweD  near  thy  hall, 

Along  the  bordering  lake, 
And  when  they  on  their  father  call, 

What  answer  shall  she  make  7* — 
**  Enoagh,  enough,  my  yeoman  good, 

Thy  grief  let  none  gainsay ; 
Bat  I,  who  am  of  lighter  mood, 

WiU  laugh  to  flee  away.* 

**  For  who  would  trust  the  seeming  sighs 

Of  wife  or  paramour? 
Fresh  feres  will  dry  the  bright  blue  eyes 

We  late  saw  streaming  aer.* 
For  pleasures  past  I  do  not  grieve, 

Nor  perib  gathering  near ; 
Mv  greateei  grief  is  that  I  l^ave 

No  thing  £at  claims  a  tear.* 

**  And  now  Fm  in  the  worid  alone, 

Upon  the  wide,  wide  sea : 
But  why  should  I  for  others  groan, 

When  none  will  sigh  for  me  ? 
Perchance  my  dog*  will  whine  in  vain, 

Till  fed  by  stranger  hands ; 
Bat  long  ere  I  come  back  again . 

He'd  tear  me  where  he  stands.* 

1  [William  Fletcher,  the  fiuthfiil  valet ;— who,  after  a  ser- 
rice  of  twenty  years,  ("  during  which,"  he  says,  "  his  Lord 
wBsmore  to  him  than  a  fothcr,")  received  the  FUgrim't  last 
words  at  Missolonghi,  and  did  not  quit  his  remains,  unul  he 
hid  seen  them  deposited  in  the  &mily  vault  at  Hucknall. 
Tlus  muophisticated  **  yeoman**  was  a  constant  source  of 
Pteasantnr  to  his  master :— e.  g.  "  Fletcher,"  he  says,  in  a 
ma  to  Ms  mother,  **  is  not  vaUant :  he  requires  comforts 
Hut  I  can  dispense  with,  and  sighs  for  beer,  and  beef,  and 
tea,  azul  his  wife,  and  the  devil  knows  what  besides.  We 
vere  one  night  lost  in  a  thunder-storm,  and  since,  nearly 
vrecked.  m  both  cases  he  was  sorely  bewildered ;  from 
tpprehensKMis  of  fiamine  and  banditti  in  the  first,  and  drown- 
mg  in  the  second  instance.  His  eyes  were  a  little  hurt  by 
tktb  l^ttning,  or  crying,  I  don't  know  which.  I  did  what  I 
eoaki  to  console  him,  tnit  fonnd  ^  m  incorrigible.  He  sends 
u  tigfas  to  Sally.  I  shall  settle  him  hi  a  farm ;  for  he  has 
MTved  me  foithraUv,  and  Sally  is  a  eood  woman."  After  all 
his  adventures  by  flood  and  field,  snort  commons  included, 
Uqs  homble  Achates  rf  the  poet  has  now  established  himself 
ti  the  keeper  of  an  talian  warehouse,  in  Charles-street, 
Berkeley  Square,  whei  o,  if  he  does  not  thrive,  every  one  who 
knows  any  thing  of  his  character  will  say  he  deserves  to 
do  too 

*  [*"  Enough,  enough,  my  yeoman  good. 

All  this  is  well  to  say ; 
Bat  if  I  in  thy  sandals  stood, 

Td  Uugh  to  get  away."— MS.]  * 

'  V*  For  who  would  trust  a  paramour. 

Or  e*en  a  wedded  freere, 
Though  her  blue  eyes  were  streaming  o'er, 

Andtom  her  yellow  hair ?"— MS.] 

*  V I  leave  England  without  regret— I  shall  return  to  it 
vtthoot  i^easure.  I  am  like  Adam,  the  first  convict  sentenced 
to  transportation ;  bat  I  have  no  Eve,  and  have  eaten  no  ap- 
ple but  what  was  sour  as  a  crab."— Lord  B.  to  Mr.  Hodesmt,} 

*  [From  the  following  passage  in  a  letter  to  Bilr.  Dallas,  it 
^rtna  appear  that  that  gentleman  had  recommended  the 

n  or  alteration  of  this  stanza  :—'*  I  do  not  mean  to 
the  ninth  verse  in  the  *  Good  Niffht.'    I  have  no 
to  sttmoss  my  dog  better  than  his  brother  brutes. 
Ml ;  and  Argus,  we  know  to  be  a  fable."] 
IHere  foUows,  m  the  original  MS.  :— 


"  With  thee,  my  bark,  111  ewifUy  go 

Athwart  the  foaming  brine ; 
Nor  care  what  land  thou  bear'st  me  to. 

So  not  again  to  mine. 
Welcome,  welcome,  ye  dark  blue  wavef ! 

And  when  you  fail  my  sight, 
Welcome,  ye  deserts,  and  yo  caves ! 

My  native  Land— Good  Night  I'" 

XIV. 

On,  on  the  vessel  flies,  the  land  is  gone, 
And  winds  are  rude,  in  Biscay's  sleepless  bay. 
Four  days  are  sped,  but  with  the  flfth,  anon. 
New  shores  descried  make  every  bosom  gay ; 
And  Cintra's  mountain  greets  them  on  tboir  way. 
And  Tagus  dashing  onward  to  the  deep, 
His  fabled  golden  tribute  bent  to  pay 
And  soon  on  board  the  Lnsian  pilota  leap,       ^reap. 
And  steer  'twixt  fertile  shores  where  yet  few  rustics 

XV. 

Oh,  Christ !  it  is  a  goodly  sight  to  see 
What  Heaven  hath  done  for  this  delicious  land ! 
What  fruits  of  fragrance  blush  un  every  tree ! 
What  goodly  prospects  o'er  the  hills  expand ! 
But  man  would  mar  them  with  an  impious  hand : 
And  when  the  Almighty  Ufts  his  fiercest  scourge 
'Gainst  those  who  most  transCTess  his  high  conmiand. 
With  treble  vengeance  will  his  hot  shafts  urge 
Gaul's  locust  host,  and  earth  from  fellest  foemen  purge." 

XVI. 
Wliat  beauties  doth  Lisboa*  first  unfold ! 
Her  image  floating  on  that  noble  tide. 
Which  poets  vainly  pave  with  sands  of  gold,** 
But  now  whereon  a  thousand  keels  did  ride 
Of  mighty  strength,  since  Albion  was  alhed, 


"  Methinks  it  would  my  bosom  glad. 
To  chan;^  my  proud  estate. 
And  be  agun  a  laughing  lad 

With  one  beloved  playmate. 
Since  youth  I  scarce  have  pass'd  an  hour 

Witnout  disgust  or  pain, 
Except  sometimes  in  Lady's  bower, 
Or  when  the  bowl  I  dram."l 
1  [Originally,  the  •*  Utile  page"  and  the  "  yeoman"  were 
introduced  in  tho  following  stanzas  :— 

"  And  of  his  train  there  was  a  henchman  page, 
A  peasant  boy,  who  served  his  master  well ; 
And  often  would  his  prankson^e  prate  engage 
Childe  Harold's  ear,  when  his  proud  heart  aid  swell 
With  sable  thoughts  that  he  disdain'd  to  tell. 
Then  would  he  smile  on  him,  and  Alwin  smiled, 
When  aught  that  from  his  young  lips  archly  fell 
The  gloomy  film  from  Harold's  eye  beguiled  : 
And  pleased  for  a  glimpse  appear'a  the  woful  Childe 
Him  and  one  yeoman  only  did  he  take 
To  travel  eastward  to  a  far  coimtrie ; 
And,  though  the  boy  was  grieved  to  leave  the  lake 
On  whose  fair  banks  he  n-ew  from  infancy, 
Eftsoons  his  little  heart  beat  merrily 
With  hope  of  foreign  nations  to  behold. 
And  many  things  right  marvellous  to  see. 
Of  which  our  vaunting  voyagers  oft  have  told. 
In  many  a  tome  as  true  as  Mandeville's  of  old."] 

■  ['*  These  Lusian  brutes,  and  earth  from  worst  of 
wretches  purge."— MS.) 

•  ["  A  friend  advises  UlUtipont ;  but  Lishoa  is  the  Portu- 
guese word,  consequently  the  best.  Ulissipont  is  pedantic ; 
and  as  I  had  lagged  in  Hellas  and  Eros  not  long  before,  there 
would  have  been  something  like  an  afl'ectation  of  Greek 
terms,  which  I  wished  to  avoid.  On  the  submission  of  Lusi' 
tama  to  the  Moors,  they  changed  the  name  of  the  capiuil, 
which  till  then  had  been  Ulisipo,  or  Lispo ;  because,  in  tb« 
Arabic  alphabet,  the  letter  o  is  not  used.  Hence,  I  beheve, 
Lisboa;  whence  again,  the  French  Lisbonne,  and  our 
Lisbon,— God  knows  which  the  earlier  corruption  !*'— Byros, 
M8.1 

lo'f"  Which  poets,  prone  to  lie,  have  paved  with  gold."— 
MS.] 


16 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


And  to  the  Lusiaiu  did  her  aid  a^rd : 
A  nation  swobi  with  ignorance  and  pride, 
Who  lick  yet  loathe  the  hand  that  waves  the  sword 
T)  save  them  from  the  wrath  of  Gaul*8  unsparing 
lord.* 

XVII. 

But  whoso  entereth  within  this  town, 
That,  sheening  far,  celestial  seems  to  be, 
Disconsolate  will  wander  up  and  down, 
'Mid  many  things  unsightly  to  strange  ee  f 
For  hut  and  palace  show  Uke  filthily : 
The  dingy  denizens  are  rear'd  in  dirt ; 
Ne  personage  of  high  or  mean  degree 
Doth  care  for  cleanness  of  surtout  or  shirt. 
Though  sheut  with   Egypt's  plague,  unkempt,  un- 
wash'd;  unhurt 

XVIII. 

Poor,  paltry  slaves !  yet  bom  'midst  noblest  scenes— 
Why,  Nature,  waste  thy  wonders  on  such  men? 
Lo !  CiutraV  glorious  Eden  intervenes 
III  variegated  maze  of  mount  and  glen. 
Ah,  me !  what  hand  can  pencil  guide,  or  pen, 
To  follow  half  on  which  the  eye  dilates 
Through  views  more  dazzling  unto  mortal  ken 
Than  those  whereof  such  things  the  bard  relates. 
Who  to  the  awe-struck  world  unlock'd  Elysium's  gates? 

XIX. 

The  horrid  crags^  by  toppling  convent  crown'd. 
The  cork-trees  hoar  that  clothe  the  shaggy  steep, 
The  mountain-moss  by  scorching  skies  imbrownM, 
The  sunken  glen,  whose  sunless  shrubs  must  weep. 
The  tender  azure  of  the  unruffled  deep, 
The  orange  tints  that  gild  the  greenest  bough, 
The  torrents  that  from  clifF  to  valley  leap. 
The  vine  on  high,  the  willow  branch  below, 
Mix'd  in  one  mighty  scene,  with  varied  beauty  glow. 


1  [By  comparing  this  and  tbe  thirteen  following  stanzas 
with  the  account  of  his  progress  which  Lord  Byron  sent 
home  to  his  mother,  the  reader  will  see  that  they  are  the 
exact  echoes  of  the  thoughts  which  occurred  to  his  mind  as 
he  went  over  the  spots  described.— Moobb.] 

«  f '*  'Mid  many  things  that  nieve  both  nose  and  ee.**— MS.] 

*  ["  To  make  amends  for  the  filthiness  of  Lisbon,  and  its 
still  filthier  inhabitants,  the  village  of  Cintra,  about  fifteen 
miles  from  the  camtal,  is,  perhaps,  in  every  respect  the 
most  delightful  in  Europe.  It  contains  beauties  of  every 
description,  natural  and  artificial:  palaces  and  gardens 
rising  m  the  midst  of  rocks,  cataracts,  and  precipices ;  con- 
vents on  stupendous  heights  ;  a  distant  view  of  the  sea  and 
the  Tagus  ,  and,  besides,  (though  that  is  a  secondary  con- 
sideration,) is  remarkable  as  the  scene  of  Sir  Hew  Dal- 
rymple's  convenii  ^n.  It  unites  in  itself  all  the  wildness  of 
the  western  Highlands  with  the  verdure  of  the  south  of 
France."— 5.  to  Mr*.  ByroH^  1809.] 

*  The  convent  of  "  Our  Lady  of  Punishment,"  NoMsa 
SeHora  de  Pena^  on  the  summit  of  the  rock.  Below,  at  some 
distance,  is  the  Cork  Convent,  where  St.  Honorius  dug  his 
den.  over  which  is  his  epitaph.  From  the  hills,  the  sea  adds 
to  the  beauty  of  the  view.— iVore  fo  l«f  Edition.— ^mce  the 
publication  of  this  poem,  I  have  been  Informed  of  the  mis- 
apprehension of  the  term  Nossa  Senora  de  Pena.  It  was 
owing  to  the  want  of  the  tilde  or  mark  over  the  n,  which 
alters  the  sigriication  of  the  word :  with  it,  Pena  signifies 
a  rock  ;  without  it,  Pena  has  the  sense  I  adopted.  I  do  not 
think  it  necessary  to  alter  the  passage ;  as,  though  the 
common  acceptation  affixed  to  it  is,  "  Our  Lady  of  the 
Rock,"  I  may  well  assume  the  other  sense  from  the  severi- 
ties practised  there.— iVor«  to  %d  Edition. 

B  It  is  a  well-known  fact,  that  in  the  year  1809,  the  assas- 
sinations in  the  streets  of  Lisbon  and  its  vicinity  were  not 
confined  by  the  Portuguese  to  their  countrymen ;  but  that 
Englishmen  were  daily  butchered :  and  so  far  from  redress 
being  obtained,  we  were  requested  not  to  interfere  if  we 
perceived  any  compatriot  defending  himself  against  his 


XX 

Then  slowly  climb  the  many-winding  way, 
And  frequent  turn  to  linger  as  you  go, 
From  loftier  rocks  new  toveliness  survey, 
And  rest  ye  at  "  Our  Lady's  house  of  wo  ;"* 
Where  frugal  monks  their  little  relics  show. 
And  sundry  legends  to  the  stranger  tell : 
Here  impious  men  have  punish'd  been,  and  lo! 
Deep  in  yon  cave  Honorius  long  did  dwell. 
In  hope  to  merit  Heaven  by  makmg  earth  a  HelL 

XXI. 

And  here  and  there,  as  up  the  crags  you  spring, 
Mark  many  rudeM»rved  crosses  near  the  path : 
Yet  deem  not  these  devotion's  ofl^ring^ 
These  are  memorials  frail  of  murderous  wrath : 
For  wheresoe'er  the  shrieking  victim  hath 
Pour'd  forth  his  blood  beneath  the  assaasm's  knife, 
Some  hand  erects  a  cross  of  mouldering  lath ; 
And  grove  and  glen  with  thousand  such  aro  rife 
Throughout  this  purple  laud,  whero  law  secures  not 
life.» 

XXIL 

On  sloping  mounds,  or  in  the  vale  beneath, 
Aro  domes  where  whilome  kings  did  make  repair ; 
But  now  the  wild-flowers  round  them  only  breathe ; 
Yet  ruin'd  splendor  still  is  lingering  there. 
And  yonder  towers  the  Prince's  p^ace  fair : 
There  thou  too,  Vathek  !*  England's  wealthiest  son. 
Once  form'd  thy  Paradise,  as  not  aware 
When  wanton  Wealth  her  mightiest  deeds  hath  done. 
Meek  Peace  voluptuous  lures  was  ever  wont  to  shun.^ 

XXIII. 
Here  didst  thou  dwell,  here  schemes  of  pleasure  plan, 
Beneath  yon  mountain's  ever  beauteous  brow ; 
But  now,  as  if  a  thing  unblest  by  Man, 
Thy  fairy  dwelling  is  as  lone  as  thou  I 


allies.  I  was  once  8toi^)ed  in  the  way  to  the  theatre  at 
eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  when  the  streets  «7ere  not 
more  empty  than  they  generally  are  at  that  hour,  opposite  to 
an  open  shop,  and  in  a  ciuriage  with  a  friend :  had  we  not 
fortunately  been  armed,  I  have  not  the  least  doubt  that  we 
should  have  *'  adorned  a  tale^  instead  of  telling  one.  The 
crime  of  assassination  is  not  confined  to  Portugal :  in  Sicily 
and  Malta  we  are  knocked  on  the  head  at  a  handsome  aver- 
age nishtly,  and  not  a  Sicilian  or  Maltese  is  ever  punished ! 

« ["  Yatnek"  (says  Lord  Byron,  in  one  of  his  diaries,) 
**  was  one  of  the  tales  I  had  a  very  earlv  admiration  of. 
For  correctness  of  costume,  beauty  of  description^  and 
power  of  imagination,  it  far  surpasses  all  European  imita- 
tions ;  and  oears  such  marks  of  originality,  that  those  who 
have  visited  the  East  will  find  some  difficulty  in  believing 
it  to  be  more  than  a  translation.  As  an  eastern  tale,  even 
Rasselas  must  bow  before  it ;  his  *  happy  valley'  will  not 
bear  a  comparison  with  the  *  Hall  of  Eblis.'  "—William 
Beckford,  Esq.,  son  of  the  once  celebrated  alderman,  and 
heir  to  his  enormous  wealth,  published,  at  the  early  age  of 
eighteen,  •*  Memoirs  of  extraordinary  Painters ;"  and  in 
the  year  after,  the  romance  thus  eulogized.  After  silting 
for  Hindon  in  several  parliaments,  this  gifted  person  was 
induced  to  fix,  for  a  time,  his  residence  in  Portugal,  where 
the  memory  of  his  magnificence  was  fresh  at  the  period  of 
Lord  Byron's  pilgrimage.  Returning  to  England,  he  realized 
all  the  outward  shows  of  Gothic  grandeur  m  his  unsubstan- 
tial pageant  of  FontbiU  Abbey ;  and  has  more  recently 
been  indulging  his  fancy  with  another,  probaWy  not  more 
lasting,  monument  of  architectural  capnce,  in  the  vicinity 
of  Bath.  It  is  much  to  be  regretted,  that,  after  a  lapse  of 
fifty  years,  Mr.  Beckford's  literary  reputation  should  con- 
tinue to  rest  entirely  on  his  juvenile,  however  remarkable, 
performances.  It  is  said,  however,  that  he  has  prepared 
several  works  for  posthumous  publication.] 

» ["  When  Wealth  andTasie  their  worst  and  best  have  done, 
Meek  Peace  pollution's  lure  noluptuous  still  must 
shun."— MS.J 


Canto  i. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


17 


Here  giant  weeds  a  passage  scarce  allow 
To  balls  deserted,  portals  gaping  wide  ; 
Fresh  lessons  to  the  thinking  b<»oni,  how 
Vain  are  the  pleasaunces  on  earth  supplied  ; 
Swept  into  wrecks  anon  by  Time's  ungentle  tide ! 

XXIV 
Beboia  the  hall  where  chiefs  were  late  convened  !* 
Oh !  dome  displeasing  unto  British  eye  ! 
With  diadem  bight  foolscap,  lo !  a  fiend, 
A  little  fiend  that  sco&  incessantly, 
There  sits  in  parchment  robe  arrayM,  and  by 
His  side  is  hun^  a  seal  and  saUe  scroll, 
Where  Uazon'd  glare  names  known  to  chivalry, 
And  sundry  signatures  adorn  the  roll, 
Whereat  the  Urchin  points,  and  laughs  with  all  his  soul.' 

XXV. 

Convention  is  the  dwarfish  demon  styled 
That  foil'd  the  knights  in  Marialva*s  dome : 
Of  brains  (if  brains  they  had)  he  them  beguiled, 
And  tnm'd  a  nation's  shallow  joy  to  srloom. 
Here  FoUy  dash'd  to  earth  the  victor  s  plume. 
And  Policy  regained  what  arms  had  lost : 
For  chiefs  like  ours  in  vain  may  laurels  bloom  I 
Wo  to  the  conquering,  not  the  conquer'd  host, 
Since  baffled  Triumph  droops  on  Lusitauia's  coast ! 

XXVI. 
And  ever  since  tliat  martial  synod  met, 
Britannia  sickens,  Cintra !  at  thy  name ; 
And  folks  in  office  at  the  mention  fret. 
And  fain  wonld  blush,  if  blush  they  could,  for  shame. 
How  will  posterity  the  deed  proclaim  ! 
Will  not  our  own  and  fellow-nations  sneer, 
To  view  these  champions  cheated  of  their  fame. 
By  foes  in  fight  overthrown,  yet  victors  here,  [year? 
Where  Scorn  her  finger  points  through  many  a  coming 


>  The  ConreDtion  of  Cintra  was  signed  in  the  palace  of  the 
Marcbese  Marialva.— ["  The  armistice,  the  negotiations, 
the  conreotioa  itself,  and  the  execution  of  its  provisions, 
were  all  commenced,  conducted,  and  concluded,  at  the  dis- 
tance of  thirtj  miles  from  Cintra,  with  which  place  they 
bad  not  the  slightest  connection,  political,  military,  or  local ; 
yet  Lord  Byron  has  gravely  asserted,  in  prose  and  verse, 
that  the  convention  was  signed  at  the  Marquis  of  Marialva's 
hoiue  at  Cintra ;  and  the  author  of  *  The  Dairy  of  an  In- 
valid,' improving  upon  the  poet's  discovery,  detected  the 
stains  of  the  ink  spilt  by  Junot  upon  the  occasion."— JVo- 
fier's  Uistofy  of  the  PrmtUviar  W^ar.  | 

s  The  passage  stood  differently  in  the  original  MS.   Some 
verses  which  the  poet  omitted  at  the  entreaty  of  his  friends 
can  itom  offiend  no  one,  and  may  perhaps  amuse  many : — 
In  golden  characters  right  well  designed. 
First  on  the  list  appeareth  one  "Junot ;" 
Then  certain  other  glorious  names  we  find. 
Which  rhyme  compelleth  me  to  place  below 
Dnll  victors !  baffled  by  a  vanquished  foe, 
Wheedl :  ^  by  conynge  tongues  of  laurels  due. 
Stand,  wonny  of  each  other,  in  a  row- 
Sir  Arthor,  Harryj  and  the  dizzard  Hew 
Dalrymple,  seely  wight,  sore  dupe  of  t'other  tew. 

Convention  is  the  dwarfish  demon  styled 
That  foU'd  the  knights  in  Marialva's  dome  , 
Of  brains  f  if  brains  thev  had)  he  them  beguiled, 
And  tum'd  a  nation's  shallow  joy  to  cloom. 
For  vvell  I  wot,  when  first  the  news  did  come. 
That  Vimiera's  field  by  Gaul  was  lost, 
For  paragraph  ne  paper  scarce  had  room, 
Such  Paeans  teem'd  lor  oar  triumphant  host, 
In  Courier,  Chronicle,  and  eke  in  Morning  Post : 

Bnt  when  Convention  sent  his  handy-work, 
Pens,  tongues,  feet,  hands,  combined  in  wild  uproar  : 
Mayor,  aldermen,  laid  down  the  uplifted  fork  ; 
The  BeiKh  of  Bishops  half  forgot  to  snore  ; 
Stem  Cobbett,  who  for  one  whole  week  forbore 


XXVII 

So  deem'd  the  Childc,  as  o'er  the  mountains  he 
Did  take  his  way  in  solitary  guise : 
Sweet  was  the  scene,  yet  soon  he  thought  to  flee, 
More  restless  than  the  swallow  in  the  s&ies : 
Thoug^h  here  awhile  he  leam'd  to  moralize, 
For  Meditation  fix*d  at  times  on  him ; 
And  conscious  Reason  whisper'd  to  despise 
His  early  youth  misspent  in  maddest  whim ; 
But  as  he  gazed  on  truth  his  aching  eyes  grew  dim. 

XXVIII. 

To  horse  !  to  horse  I'  he  quits,  forever  quits 
A  scene  of  peace,  though  soothing  to  his  soul : 
Again  he  rouses  from  his  moping  fits. 
But  seeks  not  now  the  harlot  and  the  bowl. 
Onward  he  flies,  nor  fix'd  as  yet  the  goal 
Where  he  shall  rest  him  on  his  pilgrimage ; 
And  o'er  him  many  changing  scenes  must  roll 
Ere  toil  his  thirst  for  travel  can  assuage. 
Or  he  shall  calm  his  breast,  or  learn  experience  sage. 

XXIX. 

Yet  Mafra  shall  one  moment  claim  delay. 
Where  dwelt  of  yore  the  Lusians'  luckless  queen  ^ 
And  church  and  court  did  mingle  their  array, 
And  mass  and  revel  were  alternate  seen ; 
Lordlings  and  frercs — ill-sorted  fry  I  ween  ! 
But  here  the  Babylonian  whore  hath  built* 
A  dome,  where  flaunts  she  in  such  glorious  sheen, 
That  men  forget  the  blood  which  she  hath  spilt. 
And  bow  the  knee  to  Pomp  that  loves  to  varnish  guilt 

XXX. 
O'er  vales  that  teem  with  fruits,  romantic  hills, 
(Oh,  that  such  hills  upheld  a  freebom  race  ') 
Whereon  to  gaze  the  eye  with  joyaunce  fills, 
Childe  Harold  wends  through  many  a  pleasant  place 

To  question  aught,  once  more  with  transport  leapt. 
And  bit  his  devuish  quill  agen,  and  swore 
With  foe  such  treaty  never  should  be  kept,      [—slept ! 
Then  burst  the  blatant*  beast,  and  roar'd,  and  raged,  and 

Thus  unto  Heaven  appeal'd  the  people :  Heaven, 
Which  loves  the  lieges  of  our  gracious  King, 
Decreed,  that,  ere  our  generals  were  forgiven, 
Inquiry  should  be  held  about  the  thing. 
But  Mercy  cloak'd  the  babes  beneath  her  wing ; 
And  as  they  spared  our  foes,  so  spared  we  them ; 
(Where  was  the  pity  of  our  sires  for  Byng  ?)t 
Yet  knaves,  not  idiots,  should  the  law  condemn ; 
Then  live,  ye  gallant  knights !  and  bless  your  Judges' 

phlegm ! 
»  ["  After  remaining  ten  days  in  Lisbon,  we  sent  our  bag- 
gage and  part  of  our  servants  by  sea  to  Gibraltar,  and  trav- 
elled on  horseback  to  Seville ;  a  distance  of  nearly  four 
hundred  miles.  The  horses  are  excellent ;  we  rode  seventy 
miles  a-day.  Eggs  and  wine,  and  hard  beds,  are  all  the 
accommodation  we  found,  and,  is  such  torrid  weatl:«r, 
quite  enough."— fi.  Lettcrty  1809.J 

*  "  Her  luckless  majesty  went  subsequently  mad ;  and  Dr 
Willis,  who  so  dexterously  cudgelled  kingly  pericraniums, 
could  make  nothing  of  hers."— Bynm  MS.  [The  queen 
labored  under  a  melancholy  kind  of  derangement,  from 
which  she  never  recovered.  She  died  at  the  Brazils,  in  1816.] 

»  The  extent  of  Mafra  is  prodigious ;  it  contains  a  palace, 

*  "  Blatant  beast,"  a  figure  for  the  mob,  I  think  first  used 
by  Smollett  in  his  **  Adventures  of  an  Atom."  Horace  has 
the  **  bellua  multorum  capitum :"  in  England,  fortunately 
enough,  the  illustrious  mobility  have  not  even  one. 

t  By  this  query  it  is  not  meant  that  our  foolish  generals  | 
shoula  have  been  shot,  but  that  Byng  might  have  been  spared,  j 
though  the  one  suffered  and  the  others  escaped,  probably  tor  i 
Canmde's  reason,  "pour  encourager  les  autres."  [See  < 
Croker's  "  Boswell,"  vol.  L  p.  298 ;  and  the  Quarterly  Re- 
view, vol.  xxvii.  p.  207,  where  the  question,  whether  the 
admiral  was  or  was  not  a  political  martyr,  is  treated  at  large.] 


18 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


Though  duggordB  deem  it  bat  a  foolish  chase, 
And  marvel  men  should  quit  their  easy  chair, 
The  toilsome  way,  and  long,  long  league  to  trace. 
Oh !  there  is  sweetness  in  the  mountain  air. 
And  life,  that  bloated  Ease  can  never  hope  to  share. 

XXXI. 

More  bleak  to  view  the  hills  at  length  recede. 

And,  less  luxuriant,  smoother  vales  extend ; 

Immense  horizon>faounded  plains  succeed ! 

Far  as  the  eye  discerns,  withouten  end, 

Spain's  realms  appear  whereon  her  shepherds  tend 

Flocks,  whose  rich  fleece  right  well  the  trader 

knows — 
Now  must  the  pastor's  arm  his  lambs  defend 
For  Spain  is  compass'd  by  unyielding  foes. 
And  all  must  diield  their  all,  or  share  Subjection's 

woe^ 

XXXII. 

Where  Lusitania  and  her  Sister  meet. 
Deem  ye  t^ltat  bounds  the  rival  realms  divide? 
Or  ere  the  jealous  queens  of  nations  greet. 
Doth  Ta^o  interpose  his  mighty  tide  7 
Or  dark  bierras  rise  in  craggy  pride? 
Or  fence  of  art,  like  Ghma's  vasty  wall  ? — 
Ne  barrier  wall,  ne  river  deep  and  wide. 
No  horrid  crags,  nor  mountains  dark  and  tall. 
Rise  like  the  rocks  that  part  Hispania's  land  from  Gaul : 

XXXIII. 

But  these  between  a  silver  streamlet  glides, 
And  scarce  a  name  distinguisheth  the  brook. 
Though  rival  kingdoms  press  its  verdant  sides. 
Here  leans  the  idle  shepherd  on  his  crook. 
And  vacant  on  the  ripplmg  waves  doth  look. 
That  peaceful  still  'twixt  bitterest  foemen  flow ; 
,For  proud  each  peasant  as  the  noblest  duke : 
Well  doth  the  Spanish  hind  the  difierence  know 
*Twixt  him  and  liUBian  slave,  the  lowest  of  the  low.' 

XXXIV. 

But  ere  the  mingling  bounds  have  far  been  pass'd, 
Dark  Guadiana  rolls  his  power  along* 
In  sullen  billows,  murmuring  and  vast, 
So  noted  ancient  roundelays  among.* 
Whilome  upon  his  banks  did  legions  throng 


convent,  and  most  superb  church.  The  six  organs  are  the 
most  beautiAil  1  ever  oebeld,  in  point  of  decoration :  we  did 
not  hear  them,  but  were  told  tlmt  their  tones  were  corre- 
spondent to  their  splendor.  Mafra  is  termed  the  Escurial 
of  Portugal.  ("  About  ten  miles  to  the  right  of  Cintnu**  says 
Lord  Byron,  in  4  letter  to  his  mother,  **  is  the  palace  of  Mafra, 
the  boast  or  Portuj^al,  as  it  might  be  of  any  country,  in  point 
of  magnificence,  without  elegance.  There  is  a  convent  an- 
nexed: the  monks,  who  possess  large  revenues,  are  courte* 
ous  enoui^h,  and  mdetetand  Latin :  so  that  we  had  a  lonff 
conversation.  Thej  have  a  larse  library,  and  asked  me  if 
the  English  had  oav  books  in  their  country."— Mafra  was 
erected  oy  John  V.,  in  pursuance  of  ^ow,  made  in  a  dan- 
gerous fit  of  illness,  to  found  a  convent  for  the  use  of  the 
poorest  friary  in  the  kingdom.  Upon  inquiry,  this  poorest 
was  found  at  Mafra ;  where  twelve  Franciscans  lived  to- 
gether in  a  hut.  There  is  a  magnificent  view  of  the  exist* 
ing  edifice  in  "  Finden^s  Illustrations.**] 

I  As  I  found  the  Portuguese,  so  I  have  characterixedthem. 
That  they  are  since  improved^  at  least  in  courage,  is  evident 
The  late  exploits  of  Lord  Wellington  have  efifaced  the  follies 
of  Cintra.  He  has,  indeed,  done  wonders :  he  has,  perhaps, 
changed  the  character  of  a  nation,  reconciled  rivu  super- 
stitions,  and  baffled  an  enemy  who  never  retreated  before 
his  predecessors.— 1819. 

•  [**  But  ere  the  bounds  of  Spain  have  far  been  pass'd. 

Forever  famed  in  many  a  noted  song.**— MS.1 

•  [Lord  Byron  seems  to  have  thus  early  acquirea  enough 
)f  Spanish  to  understand  and  appreciate  the  grand  body  of 


Of  Moor  and  Knight,  m  mailed  splendor  drees'd : 
Here  ceased  the  swift  their  race,  here  sunk  the  strong ; 
The  Paymm  turban  and  the  Christian  crest 
Mix*d  on  the  bleeding  stream,  by  floating  hosts  oppriai*d. 

XXXV 

Oh,  lovely  Spain !  renown*d,  romantic  land ! 
Where  is  that  standard  which  Pelagic  bore, 
When  Cava's  traitor-sire  firet  calPd  the  baud 
That  dyed  thy  mountain  streams  with  (Jothic  gore  ^ 
Where  are  those  bloody  bannen  which  of  yore 
Waved  o*er  thy  sons,  victorious  to  the  gale. 
And  drove  at  last  the  spoilers  to  their  diore? 
Red  gleam'd  the  cross,  and  waned  the  creecent  pale, 
While  Afric's  echoes  thriird  with  Moorish  matrons*  wail. 

XXXVL 

Teems  not  each  ditty  with  the  ^orious  tale  ? 
Ah !  such,  alas !  the  iiero's  amplest  fate ! 
When  granite  moulders  and  when  records  fail, 
A  peasants  plaint  prolongs  his  dubious  date. 
Pride !  bend  thine  eye  from  heaven  to  thine  estate, 
See  how  the  mighty  shrink  into  a  song ! 
Can  Volume,  Pillar,  Pile,  preserve  thee  great? 
Or  must  thou  trust  Tradition's  simple  tongue, 
When  Flattery  sleeps  with  thee,  and  History  does  thee 
wrong? 

xxxva 

Awake,  ye  sons  of  Spain !  awake !  advan«  e ! 
Lo !  Chivalry,  your  ancient  goddeas,  cries ; 
But  wields  not,  as  of  old,  her  thirsty  lance, 
Nor  shakes  her  crimson  plumage  in  the  skies : 
Now  on  the  smoke  of  blazing  lx>lt8  she  flies, 
And  speaks  m  thunder  through  yon  engine's  roar ! 
In  every  peal  she  calls — **  Awake !  arise !" 
Say,  is  her  voice  more  feeble  than  of  yoro. 
When  her  war-song  was  heard  on  Andalusia's  shore  7 

XXXVIII. 
Hark !  heard  you  not  those  hoofs  of  dreadful  note  ? 
Sounds  not  the  clang  of  conflict  on  the  heath  ? 
Saw  ye  not  whom  the  reeking  sabre  smote ; 
Nor  saved  your  brethren  ere  Siey  sank  beneath 
Tyrants  and  tyrants'  slaves? — the  fires  of  death. 
The  bale-fires  flash  on  high : — ^from  rock  to  rock 
Ekich  volley  tells  that  thousands  cease  to  breathe ; 
Death  rides  upon  the  sulphory  Siroc,* 
Red  Battle  stamps  his  foot,  and  nations  feel  the  Aock. 

ancient  popular  poetry^— unequalled  in  Europe,— which 
must  ever  form  the  pnde  of  that  magnificent  language. 
See  his  beautiful  version  of  one  of  the  best  of  the  ballads  of 
the  Granada  war— the  **  Romance  muy  doloroso  del  sitio  y 
tomade  Alhama."J 

*  Count  Julian's  daughter,  the  Helen  of  Spam.  Pelagius 
preserved  his  independence  in  the  fastnesses  of  the  Astunas, 
and  the  descendants  of  his  followers,  after  some  centuries, 
completed  their  strug:gle  by  the  conquest  of  Granada.— 
["  Almost  all  the  Spanish  historians,  as  well  as  the  voice  of 
tradition,  ascribe  the  invasion  of  the  Moors  to  the  forcible 
violation  by  Roderick  upon  Florinda,  called  by  the  Moors 
Caba,  or  Cava.  She  was  the  daughter  of  Count  Julian,  one 
of  the  Gothic  monarch's  principal  lieutenants,  who,  when  tlM 
crime  was  perpetrated,  was  engaged  in  the  defence  of  Ceuta. 
against  the  Moors.  In  his  indignation  at  the  ingratitude  of 
his  sovereign,  and  the  dishonor  of  his  daughter,  Count  Julian 
forgot  the  duties  of  a  Christian  and  a  patriot,  and,  forming  an 
alliance  with  Musa^  then  the  Caliph's  lieutenant  m  Africa,  he 
countenanced  the  mvasion  of  Spain  by  a  body  of  Saracens 
and  Africans,  commanded  by  the  celebrated  Tarik ;  the  issue 
of  which  was  the  defeat  ana  death  of  Roderick,  and  the  ( c- 
cupation  of  almost  the  wholepeninsula  by  the  Moors.  Ttm 
Spaniards,  in  detestation  of  Fiorinda's  memory,  are  said,  by 
Cervantes,  never  to  bestow  that  name  upon  any  hunaan 
female,  reserving  it  for  their  dogs."— Sib  W altib  Scott  j 

» [  *•  from  rock  to  rock 

Blue  columns  soar  aloft  in  sulphurous  wreath. 
Fragments  on  fragments  in  confusion  knock."— MS.] 


Canto  i. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


11^ 


XXXIX. 

Lo !  wfaerB  the  Giant  on  the  mountain  stands, 
His  Mood-red  tresses  deep'niujyf  in  the  sun, 
With  death -shot  glowing  in  his  fiery  hands, 
And  eye  that  scorcheth  all  it  glares  upon ; 
Restless  it  rolls,  now  fixM,  ana  now  anon 
Flawing  afar, — and  at  his  iron  foot 
Destruction  cowers,  to  mark  what  deeds  are  done ; 
For  on  this  mom  three  potent  nations  meet, 

To  died  before  his  riirine  the  blood  he  deems  most 
sweet 

XL. 
By  Heaven !  it  is  a  q>lendid  sight  to  see 
(For  one  who  hath  no  friend,  no  brother  there) 
Their  riral  scarfe  of  mix*d  embroidery, 
Tlieir  yarioos  arms  that  glitter  in  the  air ! 
What  gaUant  war-hounds  ropae  them  from  their  lair, 
And  gnash  their  fangs,  loud  yelling  for  the  prey ! 
AH  join  the  chase,  but  few  the  triumph  share ; 
Tlie  Grave  shall  bear  the  chiefest  prize  away, 

And  Havoc  scarce  for  joy  can  number  their  array. 

XLI. 
Hiree  hosts  combine  to  offer  sacrifice ; 
Three  tongues  prefer  strange  orisons  on  high ; 
Three  gaudy  standards  flout  the  pale  blue  skies ; 
The  shouts  are  France,  Spain,  Albion,  Victory ! 
The  foe,  the  victim,  and  the  fond  ally 
Tliat  fights  for  all,  but  ever  fights  m  vam, 
Are  met — as  if  at  home  they  could  not  die — 
To  feed  the  crow  on  Talavera*s  plain. 
And  fertilize  the  field  that  each  pretends  to  gain.* 

XLII. 
There  shall  they  rot — Ambition's  honored  fools  .»• 
Tes,  Honor  decks  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay ! 
Vain  Sophistry !  in  these  behold  the  tools, 
The  bn^sD  tools,  that  tyrants  cast  away 
By  myriadS}  when  they  dare  to  pave  their  way 
With  human  hearts — to  what? — a  dream  alone. 
Can  despots  compass  aught  that  hails  their  sway  ? 
Or  call  with  truth  one  span  of  earth  their  own. 
Save  that  wherein  at  last  they  crumble  bone  by  bone  7 

XLHL 

Oh,  Alboera,  gkwious  field  of  grief! 
As  o*er  thy  plain  the  Pilgrim  prick'd  his  steed, 
Who  could  foresee  thee,  in  a  space  so  brief, 
A  scene  where  mingling  foes  should  boast  and  bleed ! 
Peace  to  the  peristrd !  may  the  warrior's  meed 
And  tears  of  triumph  their  reward  prolong ! 
Till  others  fall  where  other  chieftains  lead. 
Thy  name  shall  circle  round  the  gaping  tlurong. 
And  thine  in  worthless  lays,  the  theme  of  transient 
song.» 

>.8ce  Appkitdiz,  Note  A. 

*  r**  There  let  them  rot— while  rhymers  tell  the  fools 

How  honor  decks  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay ! 
Liars  avaunt  !**— MS.] 

*  [This  stanza  is  not  in  the  original  MS.  It  was  written 
•t  Fewstead,  in  Augost,  1811,  sbortlv  after  the  battle  of 
AByoeim.] 

*  [**  At  Serille,  we  lodged  in  the  house  of  two  Spanish  un> 
■sriwd  Isdiea,  women  of  character,  the  eldest  a  fine  woman, 
fbe  yoongest  pretty.  The  freedom  of  manner,  which  is 
CNkenl  here,  astonished  me  not  a  little ;  and,  in  the  course 
of  fiother  observation,  I  find  that  reserve  is  not  the  cha- 
rwtsristic  of  Spanish  beUes.  The  eldest  honored  jrour  un- 
v'Oftlty  son  wiu  very  particular  attention,  embracing  him 
vitk  great  tenderness  at  parting,  (I  was  there  but  three 
dsjs,)  aftercQttingoff  a  lock  of  bis  hair,  and  presenting  him 
«ith  one  of  bar  own,  about  three  feet  in  length,  which  I 


XLIV 

Enough  of  Battle's  minions !  let  them  play 
Their  game  of  lives,  and  barter  breath  for  fame : 
Fame  that  will  scarce  reanimate  their  clay,  | 

Though  thousands  fall  to  deck  some  single  name. 
In  sooth  'twere  sad  to  thwart  their  noble  aim 
Who  strike,  blest  hirelings !  for  their  countr}''8  good, 
And  die,  tliat  living  might  have  proved  her  shame ; 
Perish'd,  perchance,  in  some  domestic  feud, 
Or  in  a  narrower  sphere  wild  Rapine's  path  purbued. 

XLV. 

Full  swiftly  Harold  wends  his  lonely  way 
Where  proud  Sevilla*  triumphs  unsubdueid : 
Yet  is  she  free — the  spoiler's  wish'd-for  prey ! 
Soon,  soon  shall  Conquest's  fiery  foot  intrude, 
Blackening  her  lovely  domes  with  traces  rude. 
Inevitable  hour !  'Gainst  fate  to  strive 
Where  Desolation  plants  her  famish'd  brood 
Is  vain,  or  Ilion,  Tyre  might  yet  survive. 
And  Virtue  vanquish  all,  and  Murder  cease  to  thrive. 

XLVI. 

But  all  unconscious  of  the  coming  doom. 
The  feast,  the  song,  the  revel  here  abounds ; 
Strange  modes  of  merriment  the  hours  consume, 
Nor  bleed  these  patriots  with  their  country's  wounds : 
Nor  here  War's  clarion,  but  Love's  rebeck*  sounds ; 
Here  Folly  still  his  votaries  inthralls ;  [rounds : 

And  young-eyed   Lewdness  wulks  her  midnight 
Girt  with  the  silent  crimes  of  Capitals, 
Still  to  the  last  kind  Vice  clings  to  the  tott'ring  walk. 

XLVII. 

Not  so  the  rustic — ^with  his  trembling  mate 
He  lurks,  nor  casts  his  heavy  eye  afar, 
Lest  he  should  view  his  vineyard  desolate. 
Blasted  below  the  dun  hot  breath  of  war. 
No  more  beneath  soft  Eve's  consenting  star 
Fandango  twirls  his  jocund  castanet : 
Ah,  monarchs !  could  ye  taste  the  mirth  ye  mar. 
Not  in  the  toils  of  Glory  would  ye  treti 
The  hoarse  dull  drum  would  sleep,  and  Man  be  happy 
yet! 

XLVIIL 
How  carols  now  the  lusty  muleteer? 
Of  love,  romance,  devotion  is  his  lay, 
As  whilome  he  was  wont  the  leagues  to  cheer. 
His  quick  bells  wildly  jingling  on  the  way  ? 
No !  as  he  speeds,  he  chants  **  Viva  el  Rey  !"• 
And  checks  his  song  to  execrate  Godoy, 
The  royal  wittol  Charles,  and  curse  the  day 
When  first  Spain's  queen  beheld  the  black-eyed  boy. 
And  gore-faced  Treason  sprung  from  her  adulterate 
joy. 

r — 

send,  and  beg  you  will  retain  till  my  return.     Her  las: 
words  were.  *  Aoios,  tu  hermoso !  me  gusto  mucho.*  •  Adieu, 

50U  pretty  fellow  *  you  please  me  much/  *'—£jord  B.  to  kit 
tother.  Aug.  1809.] 

»  [A  kind  of  fiddle,  with  only  two  strings,  played  on  by  a 
bow,  said  to  have  oeen  brought  by  the  Moors  into  Spain.] 
•  ♦•  Viva  el  Rey  Fernando !"  Long  live  King  Ferainand 
is  the  chorus  of  most  of  the  Spanish  patriotic  songs.  They 
are  chiefly  in  dispraise  of  the  old  king  Charles,  the  Queen 
and  the  Prince  of  Peace.  I  haje  heard  many  of  then  : 
some  of  the  airs  are  beautiful.  iDon  Manuel  Godoy,  the 
Principe  de  la  Paz,  of  an  ancient  but  decayed  family,  was 
bom  at  Badajoz,  on  the  frontiers  of  Portugal,  and  was 
originally  in  the  ranlis  of  the  Spanish  ^ards ;  till  his 

S arson  attracted  the  queen's  eyes,  and  raised  him  to  the 
ukedom  of  Alcudia,  4tc.  Ac.  It  is  to  this  man  that 
the  Spaniards  imiversally  impute  the  ruin  of  their 
try. 


20 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


XLIX. 

Ou  yon  long,  level  plain,  at  distance  crownM 
With  crags,  whereon  those  Moorish  turrets  rest, 
Wide  scattered  hoof-marks  dint  the  wounded  ground ; 
And,  scathed  by  fire,  the  greensward's  darkened  vest 
Tells  that  the  foe  was  Andalusia's  guest: 
Here  was  the  camp,  the  watch-flame,  and  the  host, 
Here  the  bold  peasant  storm'd  the  dragon's  nest ; 
Still  does  he  mark  it  with  triumphant  boast, 
And  points  to  yonder  cliffii,  which  oft  were  won  and 
lost 

L. 
And  whomsoe'er  along  the  path  you  meet 
Bew  4  in  his  cap  the  badge  of  crimson  hue, 
Which  tells  you  whom  to  shun  and  whom  to  greet :' 
Wo  to  the  man  that  walks  in  public  view 
Without  of  loyalty  this  token  true : 
Sharp  is  the  knife,  and  sudden  is  the  stroke ; 
And  sorely  would  the  Gallic  foeman  rue. 
If  subtle  poniards,  wrapt  beneath  the  cloak, 
Could  blunt  the  sabre's  edge,  or  clear  the  cannon's 
smoke. 

I  LI. 

j       At  every  turn  Morena's  dusky  height 

;       Sustains  aloft  the  battery's  iron  load ; 

And,  far  as  mortal  eye  can  compass  sight, 
The  mountain-howitzer,  the  broken  road, 
The  bristling  palisade,  the  fosse  o'erfloVd, 
The  station'd  bands,  the  never-vacant  watch, 
The  magazine  in  rocky  durance  stow'd, 
llie  holster'd  steed  beneath  the  shed  of  thatch, 
The  ball-piled  pyramid,'  the  ever-blazing  match, 

LII. 

Portend  the  deeds  to  come : — but  he  whose  nod 
Has  tumbled  feebler  despots  from  their  sway, 
A  moment  pauseth  ere  he  lifts  the  rod ; 
A  little  moment  doigneth  to  delay : 
Soon  will  his  legions  sweep  through  these  their  way ; 
The  West  must  own  the  Scourger  of  the  world. 
Ah  !  Spain !  how  sad  will  be  thy  reckoning-day. 
When  soars  Gaul's  Vulture,  with  his  wings  unfuri'd. 
And  thou  shalt  vi^v  thy  sons  in  crowds  to  Hades  huil'd. 

LIII. 

And  must  they  fall?  the  young,  the  proud,  the  brave. 
To  swell  one  bloated  Chief's  unwholesome  reign? 
No  step  between  submission  and  a  grave  ? 
The  rise  of  rapine  and  the  fall  of  Spain  ? 
And  doth  the  Power  that  man  adores  ordain 
Their  doom,  nor  heed  the  suppliant's  appeal  ? 
Is  all  that  desperate  Valor  acts  in  vain? 
And  Counsel  sage,  and  patriotic  Zeal, 
The  V^  :»ran's  skill,  Youth's  fire,  and  Manhood's  heart 
of  steel? 


»  The  red  cockade,  with  "  Fernando  VII.,"  in  the  centre. 

*  All  who  have  seen  a  battery  will  recollect  the  pyramidal 
form  in  which  shot  and  shells  are  piled.  The  Sierra  Morena 
was  fortified  in  every  defile  through  which  I  passed  in  my 
way  to  Seville. 

"  Such  were  the  exploits  of  the  Maid  of  Saragoza,  who  by 
her  valor  elevated  herself  to  the  highest  rank  of  heroines. 
When  the  author  was  at  Seville,  she  walked  daily  on  the 
Prado,  decorated  with  medals  and  orders,  by  command  of 
the  Junta.—fThe  exploits  of  Augustina,  the  famous  heroine 
of  both  the  sieges  of  Saragoza,  are  recorded  at  length  in 
Soiithey's  History  of  the  Peninsular  War.  At  the  time  when 
the  first  attracted  notice,  by  mounting  a  battery  where  her 
tore  had  fallen,  and  working  a  gun  in  his  room,  she  was  in 
km  twenty-second  year,  exceeoingty  pretty,  and  in  a  soft 


LIV. 

Is  it  for  this  the  Spanish  maid,  aroused. 
Hangs  on  the  willow  her  unstrung  guitar, 
And,  all  unsex'd,  the  anlace  hath  espoused. 
Sung  the  loud  song,  and  dared  the  deed  of  war? 
And  she,  whom  once  the  semblance  of  a  scar 
Appall'd,  an  owlet's  larum  chill'd  with  dread. 
Now  views  the  column -scattering  bay 'net  jar. 
The  falchion  flash,  and  o'er  the  yet  warm  dead 

Stalks  with  Minerva's  step  where  Mars  might  quake  to 
tread. 

LV. 
Ye  who  shall  marvel  when  you  hear  her  tale, 
Oh  !  had  you  known  her  in  her  softer  hour, 
Mark'd  her  black  eye  that  mocks  her  coal-black  veil, 
Heard  her  light,  lively  tones  in  Lady's  bower. 
Seen  her  long  locks  that  foil  the  painter's  power. 
Her  fairy  form,  with  more  than  female  grace, 
Scarce  would  you  deem  that  Saragoza's  tower 
Beheld  her  smile  in  Danger's  Gorgon  face. 

Thin  the  closed  ranks,  and  lead  in  Glory's  feaiiful  ch— e. 

LVI. 
Her  lover  sinks — i^e  sheds  ao  ill-timed  tear ; 
Her  chief  is  slain — she  fills  his  fatal  post ; 
Her  fellows  flee — she  checks  their  base  career ; 
The  foe  retires — she  heads  the  sallying  host : 
Who  can  appease  like  her  a  lover's  ghost? 
Who  can  avenge  so  well  a  leader's  fall  ? 
What  maid  retrieve  when  man's  flush 'd  hope  is  loslT 
Who  hang  so  fiercely  ou  the  flying  Gaul, 
Foil'd  by  a  woman's  hand,  before  a  batter'd  wall  ?* 

LVII. 

Yet  are  Spain's  maids  no  race  of  Amazons, 
But  form'd  for  all  the  witching  arts  of  love : 
Though  thus  in  arms  they  emulate  her  sons. 
And  in  the  horrid  phalanx  dare  to  move, 
'Tis  but  the  tender  fierceness  of  the  dove. 
Pecking  the  hand  that  hovers  o'er  her  mate : 
In  softness  as  in  firmness  far  above 
Remoter  females,  famed  for  sickening  prate ; 

Her  mind  is  nobler  sure,  her  charms  perchance  as 
great 

LVIII. 
The  seal  Love's  dimpling  finger  hath  impress'd 
Denotes  how  soft  that  chin  which  bears  his  touch  ^ 
Her  lips,  whose  kisses  pout  to  leave  their  nest. 
Bid  man  be  valiant  ere  he  merit  such : 
Her  glance  how  wildly  beautiful !  how  much 
Hath  Phoebus  woo'd  in  vain  to  spoil  her  cheek, 
Which  glows  yet  smoother  from  his  amorous  clutch ! 
Who  round  the  North  for  paler  dames  would  seek? 

How  poor  their  forms  appear !  how  languid,  wan,  Mid 
weak! 


feminine  style  of  beauty.  She  has  further  had  the  honor  to 
be  painted  by  Wilkie,  and  alluded  jo  in  Wordsworth's  Dis- 
sertation on  the  Convention  (misnimed)  of  Cintra;  where 
a  noble  passage  concludes  in  these  words :— "  Saragoza  has 
exemplined  a  melancholy,  yea,  a  dismal  truth,— yet  con- 
solatory and  full  of  joy,— that  when  a  people  are  called 
suddenly  to  fight  for  their  liberty,  and  are  sorelv  pressed 
upon,  their  best  field  of  battle  is  the  floors  upon  which  their 
children  have  played ;  the  chambers  where  the  family  of 
each  man  has  slept :  upon  or  under  the  roofs  by  which  they 
have  been  sheltered ;  in  the  gardens  of  their  recreation ;  in 
the  street,  or  in  the  market-place ;  before  the  altars  of  their 
temples,  and  among  their  congregated  dwellings,  biasing 
or  uprooted."] 
*  <^  Sigilla  in  mento  impressa  Amoris  digitulo 

Vestigio  demonstrant  mollitudinem.  *   Aol.  Obi, 


Canto  i. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


21 


UX. 

Match  me,  ye  cKmee !  which  poets  love  to  laud  ; 
Match  me,  ye  harems  of  the  laud !  where  now* 
I  strike  my  strain,  far  distant,  to  applaud 
Beauties  that  ev*n  a  cynic  must  avow  f 
Match  me  those  Houries,  whom  ye  scarce  allow 
To  taste  the  gale  lest  Love  should  ride  the  wind, 
With  Spain's  dark-glancing  daughters*— deign  to 

know, 
Hieie  your  wise  Prophet's  paradise  we  find, 
His  black-eyed  mcuds  of  Heaven,  angelically  kind. 

LX. 

Oh,  thou  Parnassus  r*  whom  I  now  survey, 
Not  in  the  phrensy  of  a  dreamer's  eye, 
Not  m  the  fabled  landscape  of  a  lay, 
Bat  soaring  (mow-clad  thmugh  thy  native  sky. 
In  the  wfla  pomp  of  mountain  majesty ! 
What  marvel  if  I  thus  essay  to  sing  ? 
The  humblest  of  thy  pilgrims  passing  by 
Would  gladly  woo  thine  Ekshoes  with  his  string, 
TWigh  fimm  thy  heights  no  more  one  Muse  will  wave 
her  wing. 

LXI. 

Oft  have  I  dream'd  of  Thee !  whose  glorious  name 
Who  knows  not,  knows  not  man's  divinest  lore : 
And  now  I  view  thee,  'tis,  alaa  I  with  shame 
That  I  in  feeblest  accents  must  adore. 
When  I  recount  thy  worshippers  of  yore 
I  tremble,  and  can  only  bend  the  knee ; 
Nor  raise  my  voice,  nor  vainly  dare  to  soar. 
But  gaze  beneath  thy  cloudy  canopy 
Ic  slent  joy  to  thmk  at  last  I  look  on  Thee  !* 

LXII. 
Happier  in  this  than  mightiest  bards  have  been, 
\Vbo9e  fate  to  distant  homes  confined  their  lot. 
Shall  I  unmoved  behold  the  hallow'd  scone. 
Which  others  rave  of,  though  they  know  it  not  ? 
Though  here  no  more  Apollo  haimts  his  grot,  . 
And  Uion,  the  Muses'  seat,  art  now  their  grave,* 
Some  gentle  spirit  still  pervades  the  spot. 
Sighs  in  the  gale,  keeps  silence  in  the  cave, 
And  glides  with  glassy  foot  o'er  yon  melodious  wave.^ 


» This  fltanxa  wa^  written  m  Turkey. 
'  ['*  Beauties  tha  .sed  not  fenr  t  *oken  vow."— MS.) 
'  ["  Long  black  hair,  dark  langm«..ing  eyes,  clear  olive 
oomplenons,  and  forms  more  graceful  in  motion  than  can  be 
conceived  by  an  Englishman,  used  to  the  drowsy,  listless  air 
of  ha  country^  :men,  added  to  the  most  becommg  dress, 
and,  at  the  saf..^  .:me,  the  most  decent  in  the  world,  render 
a  Spwiish  beauty  irrcsi«tible.'»— B.  to  hit  Mother^  Aug.  1809.] 

*  These  stanzas  were  written  in  Castri,  (Delphos,)  at  the 
foot  of  Parnassus,  now  called  Aiacvfki,  (Liakura,)  Dec.  1809. 

*["Upon  Parna^us,  going  to  the  fountain  of  Delphi, 
(Castri.)  in  1W9, 1  saw  a  flight  of  twelve  eagles,  (Hobhouse 
f*f9  they  were  vultures— at  lea^  in  conversation.)  and  I 
»U2ed  the  omen.  On  the  day  before,  I  composed  the  lines 
Jo  Paraateus,  (in  Childe  Harold,)  and  on  beholding  the 
sirds,  had  a  hoi>e  that  Apollo  had  accepted  my  homage.  I 
aave  at  least  had  the  name  and  fame  of  a  poet,  during  the 
poeljcal  period  of  Lfe,  (from  twenty  to  thirty ;)— whether  it 
*iJl  Urt  IS  another  matter :  but  I  have  been  a  votary  of  the 
"wty  and  the  nlace,  and  am  grateful  for  what  he  has  done 
la  my  behalf,  leaving  the  future  in  his  hands,  as  I  left  the 

pW-B.IHary,  1821.] 

*  ("Casting  the  eye  over  the  site  of  ancient  Delphi,  one 
<J^not  pombly  imagine  what  has  become  of  the  walls  of 
the  nomerous  buddings  which  are  mentioned  in  the  history 

I  of  Its  former  magmficence, — buildings  which  covered  two 

I  *ne*  of  ground.    With  the  exception  of  the  few  terraces 

^  supporting  walls,  nothing  now  appears.    The  various 


LXIII. 

Of  thee  hereafter. — Ev'n  amidst  my  strain 
I  turnM  aside  to  pay  ray  homage  here  ; 
Forgot  the  land,  the  sons,  the  maids  of  Spain  } 
Her  fate,  to  every  freeborn  bosom  dear ; 
And  haird  thee,  not  perchauce  without  a  tear. 
Now  to  ray  theme — but  from  thy  holy  haunt 
Let  me  some  remnant,  some  meraorial  bear ; 
Yield  me  one  leaf  of  Daphne's  deathless  ulant.^ 
Nor  let  thy  votary's  hope  be  deem'd  an  idle  vaimt. 

LXIV. 

But  ne'er  didst  thou,  fair  Mount !  when  Greece  wafc 

young, 
See  round  thy  giant  base  a  brighter  choir, 
Nor  e'er  did  Delphi,  when  her  priestess  sung 
The  Pythian  hynm  with  more  than  mortal  fire. 
Behold  a  train  more  fitting  to  inspire 
The  song  of  love  than  Andalusia's  maids, 
Nursed  in  the  glowing  lap  of  soft  desire  : 
Ah  I  that  to  these  were  given  such  peacefu.  shades 
As  Greece  can  still  bestow,  though  Glory  fly  her  glades. 

LXV. 

Fair  is  proud  Seville  ;  let  her  country  boast 
Her  strength,  her  wealth,  her  site  of  ancient  days;* 
But  Cadiz,  rising  on  the  distant  coast. 
Calls  forth  a  sweeter,  though  ignoble  praise 
Ah,  Vice  !  how  soft  are  thy  voluptuous  ways ! 
While  boyish  blood  is  mantling,  who  can  'softpe 
The  fascination  of  thy  magic  gaze  ?"* 
A  Cherub-hydra  round  us  dost  thou  gape. 
And  mould  to  every  taste  thy  dear  delusive  shape. 

LXVI. 

When  Paphofl  fell  by  Time— accursed  Time ! 
The  Queen  who  conquers  all  must  yield  to  thee — 
The  Pleasures  fled,  but  sought  as  warm  a  clime ; 
And  VenuB,  constant  to  her  native  sea, 
To  naught  else  constant,  hither  deigu'd  to  flee  ; 
And  fix  d  her  shrine  within  these  walls  of  white ; 
Though  not  to  one  dome  circumscribeth  she 
Her  worship,  but,  devoted  to  her  rite, 
A  thousand  altare  rise,  for  -"ver  blazing  bright" 


robberies  by  Sylla,  Nero,  and  Constanline,  are  inconsider 
able ;  for  the  removal  of  the  statues  of  bronze,  and  marble, 
and  ivory,  could  not  greatly  affect  the  general  appearance 
of  the  city.  The  accuvity  of  the  hili  and  the  foiuidati<ms 
being  placed  on  rock,  without  cemen  ^ould  no  doubt  ren- 
der Uiem  comparatively  easy  to  be  removed  or  hurled  down 
into  the  vale  below  ;  but  the  vale  exhibits  no  appearance  of 
accumulation  of  hewn  stones ;  and  the  mocfeni  village 
could  have  consumed  but  few.  In  the  course  of  so  many 
centuries,  the  dt'bris  from  the  mountain  must  have  covered 
up  a  great  deal,  and  even  the  rubbish  itself  may  have  ac- 

auired  a  soil  suifficient  to  conceal  many  noble  remains  from 
le  light  of  day.  Yet  we  see  no  swellings  or  risings  in  the 
ground,  indicating  the  graves  of  the  temples.  All  therefore 
18  mystery,  and  the  Greeks  may  truly  say,  ♦  Where  stood 
the  walls  of  our  fathers  ?  scarce  the  mossy  tombs  remain :' " 
— /f.  W  WUliams's  TraveU  in  Greece,  vol.  li.  p.  254.] 

'  [*♦  And  walks  with  glassy  steps  o'er  Aganippe's  wave." 
—MS.] 

»  ["  Some  glorious  thought  to  ray  petition  grant."— MS.) 

*  Seville  was  the  Hispalis  of  the  Romans. 

»  ['•  The  lurking  lures  of  thy  enchanting  gaze."— MS.] 

"  [**  Cadiz,  sweet  Cadiz  I— it  is  the  first  spot  in  the  crea- 
tion. The  beauty  of  its  streets  and  mansions  is  only  ex- 
celled by  the  liveliness  of  its  inhabitants.  It  is  a  comjblete 
Cythera,  full  of  the  finest  women  in  Spain ;  the  Cadiz 
belles  being  the  Lancashire  witches  of  their  land."— Lori  B. 
to  hit  Mother,  1809.] 


32 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


LXVII. 

From  moru  till  night,  from  uight  till  startled  Mom 
Peeps  blushing  on  the  revers  laughing  crew, 
Thf  song  b  heard,  the  rosj'  garland  worn  ; 
Devices  quaint,  and  frolics  ever  new, 
Tread  on  each  other's  kibes.     A  long  adien 
He  bids  to  sober  joy  that  here  sojourns: 
Naught  interrupts  the  riot,  though  in  lieu 
Of  true  devotion  monkish  incense  burns, 
And  love  and  prayer  unite,  or  rule  the  hour  by  tuma' 

LXVIII. 

The  Sabbath  comes,  a  day  of  blessed  rest 
What  hallows  it  upon  this  Christian  shoro  i 
Lo !  it  is  sacred  to  a  solemn  feast : 
Hurk  I  heard  you  not  the  forest-monarch's  roar? 
Crashing  the  lance,  he  snufis  the  spouting  gore 
Of  man  and  steed,  overthrown  beneath  his  horn ; 
The  throng'd  arena  shakes  with  shouts  for  more ; 
Yells  the  mad  crowd  o'er  entrails  freshly  torn. 
Nor  shrinks  the  female  eye,  nor  ev'n  afiects  to  mourn. 

LXIX. 

The  seyenth  day  this ;  the  jubilee  of  man. 
London  !  right  well  thou  know'st  the  day  of  prayer: 
Then  thy  spruce  citizen,  wash'd  artisan, 
And  smug  apprentice  gulp  their  weekly  air : 
Thy  coach  of  hackney,  whiskey,  one-horse  chair, 
And  humblest  gig  through  sundiiy  suburbs  whirl ; 
To  Hampstead,  Brentfonl,  Harrow,  make  repair ; 
Till  the  tired  jade  the  wheel  forgets  to  hurl. 
Provoking  envious  gibe  from  each  pedestrian  churL* 

LXX. 
Some  o'er  thy  Tliamis  row  the  ribbon'd  fair, 
Others  along  the  safer  turnpike  fly  ; 
Some  Richmond-hill  ascend,  some  scud  to  Ware, 
And  many  to  the  steep  of  Highgate  hie. 
Ask  ye,  Boeotian  shades  I  the  reason  why  1* 
'Tis  to  the  worship  of  the  solemn  Horn, 
Grasp'd  in  the  holy  hand  of  Mystery, 
In  whose  dread  name  both  men  and  maids  are  sworn. 
And  consecrate  the  oath*  with  draught,  and  dance  till 
mom.* 

LXXI. 

All  have  their  fooleries — ^not  alike  are  thine, 
Fair  Cadiz,  rising  o'er  the  dark  blue  sea ! 
Soon  as  the  matin  bell  proclaimeth  nine, 
Thy  saint  adorers  count  the  rosary : 
Much  is  the  Virgin  teased  to  shrive  them  free 
(Well  do  I  ween  the  only  virgin  there) 
From  crimes  as  numerous  as  nor  beadsmen  be ; 
Then  to  the  crowded  circus  forth  they  fare : 
Young,  old,  high,  low,  at  once  the  same  divermon  share. 


•  [  .xonkish  temples  share 

The  hours  misspent,  and  all  in  turns  is  love  and  prayer." — 
MS  ] 
sr'*Ajid  droughty  then  alights,  and  roars  for  Roman 

purl/'-MS.J 
>  This  was  written  at  Thebes,  and  consequently  in  the 
best  situation  for  asking  and  answering  such  a  Question ; 
not  as  the  birthplace  of  Pindar,  but  as  the  capital  of  Boeotia, 
where  the  first  riddle  was  propounded  and  solved. 

*  [Lord  Byron  alludes  to  a  ridiculous  custom  which  for- 
merly prevailed  at  the  public-houses  in  Highgate,  of  ad- 
ministering a  burlesque  oath  to  all  travellers  of  the  mid- 
dling rank  who  stopped  there.  The  party  was  sworn  on  a 
pair  of  horns,  fastened, '*  never  to  kiss  the  rnaid  when  he 
could  the  mistress  ;  never  lo  eat  brown  bread  when  he 
could  get  white  ;  never  lo  drink  snjall  beer  when  he  could 
«et  stiong,"  with  many  other  injunctions  of  the  like  kind,— 
to  all  which  was  added  the  saving  clause,—*'  tmless  you 

ike  it  best.", 


LXXII. 

The  lists  are  oped,  the  spacious  area  cleared. 
Thousands  on  thousands  piled  are  seated  round ; 
Long  ere  the  first  loud  tnimpet*s  note  is  heard, 
Ne  vacant  space  for  lated  wight  is  found : 
Here  dons,  grandees,  but  chiefly  domes  abound, 
Skiird  in  the  ogle  of  a  roguish  eye. 
Yet  ever  well  inclined  to  heal  the  wound ; 
None  throufirh  their  cold  disdain  are  doomed  to  die 
As  moon-struck  bards  complain,  by  Love's  sad  archery 

LXXIIL 

Hush'd  is  the  din  of  tongues — on  gallant  steeds, 
With  milk-white  crest,  gold  spur,  and  light-poised 
Four  cavalieiB  prepare  for  venturous  deeds,   [lance^ 
And  lowly  bending  to  the  lists  advance ; 
Rich  are  their  scarfis,  their  chargers  featly  prance : 
If  in  the  dangerous  game  they  shine  to-day, 
The  crowd's  loud  shout  and  ladies'  lovely  glance, 
Best  prize  of  better  acts,  they  bear  away. 
And  all  that  kings  or  chiefis  e*er  gain  their  toils  repay. 

LXXIV. 

In  costly  sheen  and  gaudy  cloak  array 'd, 
But  all  afoot,  the  light-limVd  Matadore 
Stands  in  the  centre,  eager  to  invade 
The  lord  of  lowing  herds ;  but  not  before 
The  ground,  with  cautious  tread,  is  traversed  o'er. 
Lest  aught  unseen  should  lurk  to  thwart  his  speed : 
His  arms  a  dart,  he  fights  aloof,  nor  more 
Can  man  achieve  without  the  friendly  steed — 
Alas  I  too  oft  coudemu'd  for  him  to  bear  and  bleed. 

LXXV. 

Thrice  sounds  the  clarion ;  lo !  the  signal  falls, 
The  den  expands,  and  Eiq>ectation  mute 
Gapes  round  the  silent  circle's  peopled  walls. 
Bounds  with  one  lashmg  spring  the  mighty  brute, 
And,  wildly  staring,  spurns,  with  sounding  foot, 
The  sand,  nor  bUndly  rushes  on  his  foe : 
Here,  there,  he  points  his  threatening  front,  to  suit 
His  first  attack,  wide  waving  to  and  fro 
His  angry  tail ;  red  rolls  his  eye's  dilated  glow. 

LXXVL 

Sudden  he  stops ;  his  eye  is  fix'd :  away, 
Away,  thou  heedless  boy !  prepare  the  spear: 
Now  is  thy  time,  to  perish,  or  display 
The  skill  that  yet  may  check  his  mad  career. 
With  well-timed  croupe*  the  nimble  coursers  veer ; 
On  foams  the  bull,  but  not  unscath'd  he  goes ; 
Streams  from  his  flank  the  crimson  torrent  clear : 
He  flies,  he  wheels,  distracted  with  his  throes ; 
Dart  follows  dart ;  lance  lance ;  loud  bellowings  speak 
his  woes. 


*  I'*  In  thus  mixing  op  the  light  with  the  solemn,  it  was 
the  mtenlion  of  the  poiet  to  imitate  Ariosto.  But  it  is  far 
easier  to  rise,  with  grace,  from  the  level  of  a  strain  gener- 
ally familiar,  into  an  occasional  short  burst  of  pathos  oi 
splendor,  than  to  interrupt  thus  a  prolonged  tone  of  solem 
mty  by  any  descent  into  the  ludicrous  or hurlesque.  In  the 
former  case,  the  transition  may  have  the  effect  of  softening 
or  elevating;  while,  in  the  latter,  it  almost  inranably 
sl.ccks ;— for  the  same  reason,  perhaps,  that  a  trait  of  pathos 
or  high  feeling,  in  comedy,  has  a  pecunar  cuarm ;  wnile 
the  intrusion  of  comic  scenes  into  tragedy,  however  sanc- 
tioned among  us  by  habit  and  authority,  rarely  fails  to  of- 
fend. The  poet  was  himself  convinced  of  the  failure  of  the 
experiment,  and  in  none  of  the  succeeding  cantos  of  Childe 
Harold  repeated  it."— Moore.] 

c  ["  The  croupe  is  a  particular  leap  taught  m  the  ma- 
n*ge."-MS.] 


Canto  i. 


CHILDE  HAROLiyS  PILGRIMAGE. 


23 


LXXVII. 

Again  he  comes ;  nor  dart  nor  lance  avail, 
Nor  the  wild  plunging  of  the  tortured  boise ; 
lliougfa  man  and  man's  avenging  arms  assail, 
Vain  are  his  weapons,  vainer  is  his  force. 
One  gallant  steed  is  stretch'd  a  mangled  corse ; 
Another,  hideous  sight !  unseam'd  appears, 
His  gory  chest  unveils  life's  panting  source ; 
Tliougfa  death-struck,  still  his  feeble  frame  he  rears ; 
Staggering,  but  stemming  all,  his  lord  unharm'd  he 
beazB. 

LXXVIII. 

Foifd,  bleeding,  breathless,  furious  to  the  last, 
Full  in  the  centre  stands  the  buU  at  bay, 
'Mid  wounds,  and  clinging  darts,  and  lances  brast, 
And  foes  disabled  in  the  brutal  fray : 
And  now  the  Matadores  around  him  play, 
Shake  the  red  cloak,  and  poise  the  ready  brand : 
Once  more  through  all  he  bursts  his  thundering  way — 
Vain  rage !  the  mantle  quits  the  conynge  hand, 
Wr^  his  fierce  eye— 'tis  past — he  sinks  upon  the  sand !' 

LXXIX. 

Where  his  vast  neck  just  mingles  with  the  spme, 
Sheath'd  in  his  form  the  deadly  weapon  lies. 
He  steals — he  starts— disdaining  to  decline : 
SlowljT  he  falls,  amidst  triumphant  cries. 
Without  a  groan,  without  a  struggle  dies. 
The  decorated  car  appears — on  nigh 
The  corse  is  piled— sweet  sight  for  vulgar  eyes—* 
Four  steeds  that  spurn  the  rein,  as  swift  as  shy. 
Hail  the  dark  bulk  along,  scarce  seen  in  dashing  by. 

LXXX. 

Soeh  the  ungentle  sport  that  oft  mvites 
The  Spanish  maid,  and  cheers  the  Spanish  swain. 
Nurtured  in  blood  betimes,  his  heart  delights 
In  vengeance,  gloating  on  anotlier's  pain. 
What  private  feuds  the  troubled  village  stain ! 
Hiough  now  one  phalanx'd  host  should  meet  the  foe, 
Enough,  alas  I  in  humble  homes  remain. 
To  meditate  'gainst  friends  the  secret  blow, 
fit  some  slight  cause  of  wrath,  whence  life's  warm 
stream  must  flow.* 

LXXXI. 

But  Jealousy  has  fled :  his  bars,  his  bolts. 
His  withered  sentinel,  Duenna  sage ! 
And  all  whereat  the  generous  soid  revolts. 
Which  the  stem  dotard  deem'd  he  could  encage, 
Have  pass'd  to  darkness  with  the  vanish'd  age. 
Who  late  so  firee  as  Spanish  girls  were  seen, 
(Ere  War  uprose  in  his  volcanic  rage,) 
With  braided  tresses  bounding  o'er  the  green, 
While  on  the  gay  dance  shone  Night's  lover-loving 
Qaeen? 


*  CTIm  reader  will  do  well  to  compare  Lord  Byron*8  ani- 
nated  picture  of  the  populv  "  sport'^  of  the  Spanish  nation, 
wiih  tbo  very  circumstantial  details  contained  in  the  charm- 
nr  **  Letters  of  Don  Leucadio  Doblado,**  (i.  e.  the  Rev. 
Bunoo  White,)  published  in  1623.  So  inveterate  was,  at 
one  time,  the  ra^  of  the  people  for  this  amusement,  that 
even  boys  mimicked  its  features  in  their  nlay.  In  the 
stMifhter-hoose  itself  the  profession;!  1  buU-fighter  gave 
ic  lessons ;  and  such  was  the  force  of  depraved  custom, 
bdies  of  the  highest  rank  were  not  ashamed  to  appear 
Ist  the  filth  and  horror  of  the  shambles.  The  Spaniards 
raedvsd  this  sport  from  the  Moors,  among  whom  it  was 
cylebrsted  with  great  pump  and  splendor.— See  various 
|H)tcs  to  Mr.  Lockhurs  CoUection  of  Ancii 
"  *      1891] 


Ancient  Spanish 


LXXXII. 

Oh !  many  a  tune,  and  oft,  had  Harold  loved, 
Or  dream'd  he  loved,  since  rapture  is  a  dream ; 
But  now  his  wayward  bosom  was  unmoved. 
For  not  yet  had  he  dnmk  of  Lethe's  stream ; 
And  lately  had  he  leam'd  with  truth  to  deem 
Love  has  no  gift  so  grateful  as  his  wings : 
How  fair,  how  young,  how  soft  soc'er  he  seem. 
Full  from  the  fount  of  Joy's  delicious  springs^ 
Some  bitter  o'er  the  flowers  its  bubblmg  venom  flings.* 

LXXXIIL 

Yet  to  the  beauteous  form  he  was  not  blind, 
Though  now  it  moved  him  as  it  moves  the  wise ; 
Not  that  Philosophy  on  such  a  mind 
E'er  deign'd  to  bend  her  chastely-awfiU  eyes : 
But  Passion  raves  itself  to  rest,  or  flies ; 
And  Vice,  that  digs  her  own  voluptuous  tomb, 
Had  buried  long  his  hopes,  no  more  to  rise : 
Pleasure's  pall'd  victim !  life-abhorring  gloom 
Wrote  on  his  faded  brow  cursed  Cain's  imresting  doom 

LXXXIV. 

Still  he  beheld,  nor  mingled  with  the  throng ; 
But  view'd  them  not  with  misanthropic  hate : 
Fain  would  he  now  have  join'd  the  dance,  the  song ; 
But  who  may  smile  that  sinks  beneath  his  fate  ? 
Naught  that  he  saw  his  sadness  could  abate : 
Yet  once  he  struggled  'gainst  the  demon's  sway. 
And  us  in  Beanty^s  bower  he  pensive  sate, 
Pour'd  forth  this  unpremeditated  lay. 
To  charms  as  fair  as  those  that  sooth'd  his  happier  day. 


TO  INEZ. 

L 
Nat,  smile  not  at  my  sullen  brow ; 

Alas !  I  cannot  smile  again : 
Yet  Heaven  avert  that  ever  thou 

Shouldst  weep,  and  haply  weep  in  vain. 

2. 

And  dost  thou  ask,  what  secret  wo 

I  bear,  corroding  joy  and  youth  7 
And  wilt  thou  vainly  seek  to  know 

A  pang,  e'en  thou  must  fail  to  sooth  ? 

3. 

It  is  not  love,  it  is  not  hate. 

Nor  low  Ambition's  honors  lost. 
That  bids  me  loathe  my  present  state. 

And  fly  from  all  I  prized  the  most : 

4. 

It  is  that  weariness  which  springs 

From  all  I  meet,  or  hear,  or  see : 
To  me  no  pleasure  Beauty  brings ; 

Thine  eyes  have  scarce  a  charm  for  me. 

•  ["  The  trophy  corse  is  reared— disgusting  prize"— 

Or, 
*♦  The  corse  is  rear'd— sparkling  the  chariot  iUes.'*— MS.] 
s  ['*  The  Spaniards  are  as  revengeful  as  ever.    At  Santa 

Otella  I  heanl  a  young  peasant  threaten  to  stab  a  woman. 

(an  old  one  to  be  sure,  which  mitigates  the  offence,)  and 

was  told,  on  expressing  some  small  surprise,  that  this  ethic 

was  by  no  means  uncommon."— MS.] 


-  Medio  de  fonte  leporuro, 


Surgit  amari  aliquid  quod  m  ipsis  floribus  angat*'— 
Luc. 
» [**  Some  bitter  bubbles  up,  and  e'en  on  roses  stings.'^— 
MS.] 


24 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


5. 

It  18  that  settled,  ceaselesB  ^loom 

The  fabled  Hebrew  wanderer  bore ; 
That  will  not  look  beyond  the  tomb, 

But  cannot  hope  for  rest  before 
6. 
What  Exile  from  himself  can  flee  V 

To  zones,  though  more  and  more  remote, 
Still,  still  pursues,  whereVr  I  be, 

The  blight  of  Ufe— the  demon  Thought* 

Yet  others  rapt  in  pleasure  seem. 

And  taste  of  all  that  I  forsake ; 
Oh  I  may  they  still  of  transport  dream, 

And  ne'er,  at  least  like  me,  awake  ! 
8. 
Through  many  a  clime  'tis  mine  to  go, 

With  many  a  retrospection  cursed  ; 
And  all  my  solace  is  to  know, 

Whatever  betides,  Fve  known  the  worst. 
9. 
What  is  that  worst  ?  Nay  do  not  ask — 

In  pity  from  the  search  fort>ear: 
Smile  on — ^nor  venture  to  unmask 

Man's  heart,  and  view  the  Hell  that's  there.' 
LXXXV. 
Adieu,  fair  Cadiz !  yea,  a  long  adieu ! 
Who  may  forget  how  well  thy  walls  have  stood? 


»  ["  What  Exile  from  himself  can  flee  ? 
To  other  zones,  howc'er  remote, 
•  Still,  still  pursuing  clings  to  me 

The  blight  of  life— the  demon  Thought."— MS.] 
«  f"  Written  January  25,  I8I0."— MS.] 
*  In  place  of  this  song,  wliich  was  written  at  Athens, 
January  S5, 1610,  and  which  contains,  as  Moore  says, "  some 
of  the  dreariest  touches  of  sadness  that  ever  Byron's  pen  let 
fall,"  wc  find,  in  the  first  draught  of  the  Canto,  the  follow- 
ing:— 

Oh  never  talk  again  to  me 

Of  northern  cDmes  un«l  British  ladies ; 
It  has  not  been  your  lot  to  see,- 

Like  me,  the  lovely  girl  of  Cadiz. 
Although  her  eye  be  not  of  blue, 

Nor  fair  her  locks,  like  English  lasses, 
How  far  its  own  expressive'  hue 

The  languid  azure  eye  surpasses .' 
2. 
Prometheus-like,  from  heaven  she  stole 

The  fire,  that  through  those  silken  lashes 
In  darkest  glances  seems  to  roll. 

From  eyes  that  cannot  hide  their  flashes : 
And  as  along  her  bosom  steal 

In  lengthen'd  flow  hei  raven  tresses. 
You'd  swear  each  clustering  lock  could  fee). 

And  curl'd  to  give  her  neck  caresses. 
3. 
Our  English  maids  are  long  to  wo 

And  frigid  even  in  possession  ; 
And  if  their  charms  be  fair  to  view, 

Their  lips  are  slow  at  Love's  confession : 
But,  bom  oeneath  a  brighter  sun. 

For  love  ordain'd  the  Spanish  maid  is, 
And  who,— when  fondly,  fairly  won,— 

Enchants  you  like  the  Girl  of  Cadiz  T 

The  Spanish  maid  Is  no  coquette, 

Nor  joys  to  see  a  lover  tremble. 
And  if  she  love,  or  if  she  hate, 

Alike  she  knows  not  to  dissemble. 
Her  heart  can  ne'er  be  bought  or  sold— 

Howe'er  it  beats,  it  beats  smcerely ; 
And,  though  it  will  not  bend  to  gold, 

"Twill  love  you  long  and  love  you  dearly. 

The  Spanish  girl  that  meets  your  love 
Ne'er  taunts  you  with  a  mock  denial, 

For  every  thought  is  bent  to  prove 
Her  passion  in  the  hour  of  trial. 

When  thronging  foemen  menace  Spain, 
She  dares  the  deed  and  shares  the  danger ; 


When  all  were  changmg  thon  alone  wert  true. 
First  to  be  free  and  last  to  be  subdued : 
And  if  amidst  a  scene,  a  shock  so  rude. 
Some  native  blood  was  seen  thy  streets  to  dye  ; 
A  traitor  only  fell  beneath  the  feud  :* 
Here  all  were  noble,  save  Nobility ; 
None  hugg'd  a  conqueror's  chain,  save  fallen  Chivalry  * 

LXXXVI. 

Such  be  the  sons  of  Spain,  and  strange  her  fate ! 
They  fight  for  freedom  who  were  never  free ; 
A  KinglesB  people  for  a  nerveless  state. 
Her  vassals  combat  when  their  chieflahis  flee, 
True  to  the  veriest  slaves  of  Treachery  ; 
Fond  of  a  land  which  gave  them  naught  but  life, 
Pride  points  the  path  that  leads  to  liberty ; 
Back  to  the  struggle,  baffled  in  the  strife. 
War,  war  is  still  the  cry,  "  War  even  to  the  knifo  !"• 

LXXXVII. 

Ye,  who  would  more  of  Spain  and  Spaniards  know 
Go,  read  whate'er  is  writ  of  bloodiest  strife : 
Whatever  keen  Vengeance  urged  on  foreign  foe 
Can  act,  is  acting  there  against  man's  life :       • 
From  flashing  cimeter  to  secret  knife. 
War  mouldetn  there  each  weapon  to  his  need — 
So  may  he  guard  the  sister  and  the  wife. 
So  may  he  make  each  cursed  oppressor  bleed. 
So  may  such  foes  deserve  the  most  remorseless  deed  !* 


And  should  her  lover  press  the  plain. 

She  hurls  the  spear,  her  love's  avenger. 
6. 
And  when,  beneath  the  evening  star. 

She  mingles  in  the  gay  Bolero, 
Or  sings  to  her  attuned  guitar 

Of  Christian  knight  or  Moorish  hero. 
Or  counts  her  beads  with  fairy  hand 

Beneath  the  twinkling  rays  of  Hesper, 
Or  Joins  devotion's  choral  b«ind, 

To  chant  the  sweet  and  hallow'd  vesper  ;— 

In  each  her  charms  the  heart  must  move 

Of  all  who  venture  to  behold  her  ; 
Then  let  not  maids  less  fair  reprove 

Because  her  bosom  is  not  colder : 
Through  many  a  clime  'tis  mine  to  roam 

Where  many  a  soft  and  melting  maid  is. 
But  none  abroad,  and  few  at  home. 

May  match  the  dark-eyed  Girl  of  Cadiz. 

*  Alludmg  to  the  conduct  and  death  of  Solano,  the  govern 
or  of  Cadiz,  in  May,  1809. 

»  "  War  to  the  knife."  Palafox's  answer  to  the  French  gen- 
eral at  the  siege  of  Saragoza.  [In  his  proclamation,  also,  he 
stated,  that,  should  the  Frencn  commit  any  robberies,  de- 
vastations, and  murders,  no  quarter  should  be  given  them. 
The  dogs  by  whom  he  was  beset,  he  said,  scarcely  left  him 
time  to  clean  his  sword  ^m  their  blood,  but  they  still  found 
their  grave  at  Saragoza.  All  his  addresses  were  in  the  same 
spirit.  "  His  language,"  says  Mr.  Southcy,  •*  had  the  high 
tone,  and  something  of  the  inflation  of  Spanish  romance, 
suiting  the  character  of  those  to  whom  it  was  dtrected.** 
See  History  of  the  Peninsular  War,  vol.  iii.  p.  152.] 

>  The  Canto,  in  the  original  MS.,  closes  with  the  follow 
ing  stanzas  :— 
Ye,  who  would  more  of  Spain  and  Spaniards  know, 
Sights,  Saints,  Antiques,  Arts,  Anecuoles,  and  War, 
Go  I  hie  ye  hence  to  Paternoster  Row- 
Are  they  not  written  in  the  Book  of  Carr,* 
Green  Erin's  Knight  and  Europe's  wandering  star ! 
Then  listen,  Readers,  to  the  Man  of  Ink, 
Hear  what  he  did,  and  sought,  and  wrote  afar ; 
All  these  are  coop'd  within  one  Quario's  brink, 
This  borrow,  steal,— don't  buy,— and  tell  us  what  you  think 

*  Porphyry  said,  that  the  prophecies  of  Daniel  were 
written  alter  their  completion,  and  such  may  be  my  fate 
here  ;  but  it  requires  no  second  sight  to  foretell  a  tome  , 
the  first  glimpse  of  tlie  knight  was  enough.  [In  a  letter  writ- 
ten from  Gibraltar,  August  o,  I8(HJ,  to  his  friend  Hodson,  Lord 
Byron  says—*'  I  have  seen  Sir  John  Carr  at  Seville  and  Ca- 
diz :  and,  like  Swift's  barber,  have  been  down  on  my  Jmees 
to  beg  he  would  not  put  mo  into  black  and  white.**] 


Canto  i. 


CHILDE  HAROLiyS  PILGRIMAGE. 


95 


LXXXVIIL 

Flowf  there  a  tear  of  pity  for  the  dead  ? 
Look  o>r  the  ravage  of  the  reeking  plain ; 
Look  on  the  hands  with  female  slaughter  red ; 
Then  to  the  dogs  resign  the  unburied  slain, 
llieD  to  the  Tultore  let  each  cone  remain ; 
Albeit  unworthy  of  the  prey-bird's  maw,        [stain, 
Let  thoir  bleach'd  bones,  and  blood's  unbleaching 
Long  maris  the  battle-field  with  hideous  awe : 
Tbm  only  may  our  sons  conceive  the  scenes  we  saw ! 

LXXXDL 

Nor  yet,  alas !  the  dreadful  work  is  done ; 
Fresh  legions  pour  adown  the  Pyrenees : 
It  deepens  still,  the  work  is  scarce  begun. 
Nor  mortal  eye  the  distant  end  foresees. 
Fall'n  nations  gaze  on  Spain ;  if  freed,  she  frees 
More  than  her  fell  Pizarros  once  enchaiu'd  : 
Strange  retribution !  now  Columbia's  ease 
Repairs  the  wrongs  that  Quito's  sons  sustain'd, 
While  o*er  the  parent  clime  prowls  Murder  unre- 
strained. 

XC. 

Not  all  the  blood  at  Talavera  shed. 

Not  all  the  marvels  of  Barossa's  fight. 

Not  Albuera  lavish  of  the  dead. 

Have  won  for  Spain  her  well-asserted  right 

I     WTien  eiiall  her  Olive-Branch  be  free  from  blight? 

I     When  shall  she  breathe  her  from  the  blushing  toil? 
How  many  a  doubtful  day  shall  sink  in  night, 

I     Ere  the  Frank  robber  turn  him  from  his  spoil, 
Aad  Freedom's  stranger-tree  grow  native  of  the  soil ! 


There  may  you  read,  with  spectacle^  on  eyes. 
How  many  WcUesleyi  did  emlKu-k  for  Spam, 
As  if  therein  they  meant  to  colonize, 
Bow  many  troops  y-crossM  the  laughing  main 
That  ne'er  beheld  the  said  return  again : 
How  many  buildings  are  in  such  a  place, 
How  many  leagues  from  this  to  vonder  plain, 
How  many  relics  each  cathedral  grace, 
Aid  where  Giraida  stands  on  her  gigantic  base. 

There  may  you  read  (Oh,  Ph<Ebu8,  save  Sir  John ! 
,     That  these  my  words  prophetic  may  not  err) 
;     AH  that  was  said,  or  sung,  or  lost,  or  won. 

By  raonting  Wellesley  or  by  blundering  Frere, 

He  that  wrote  half  tbe  "  Needy  Knife-Grinder."* 

Thai  poesy  the  way  to  grandeur  paves— 

Who  would  not  such  diplomatists  prefer  ? 

Bat  cease,  mv  Muse,  thy  speed  some  respite  craves, 
Letve  Leg^es'to  their  house,  and  armies  to  their  graves. 

Vet  here  of  Vulpes  mention  may  be  made, 

Who  for  the  Junta  modell'd  sapient  laws, 
1     Taught  them  to  govern  ere  they  were  obey'd : 
I     Cenes,  fit  teacher  to  command,  because 

Hi5  soul  Socratic  no  Xantippe  awes ;     • 

Blest  with  a  dame  in  Virtue's  bosom  nursed,— 

With  her  let  bilent  admiration  pause ! 
I     True  to  her  second  husband  and  her  first : 
I  On  such  unshaken  fame  let  Satire  do  its  worst. 

I  '  The  Honorable  John  Wingfield,  of  the  Guards,  who 
-hedof  afeverat  Coimbra,  (May  14, 1811.)  1  had  knownhim 
tea  years,  the  better  half  of  his  life,  and  the  happiest  part  of 
wmc.    In  the  short  space  of  one  month,  I  have  lost  her  who 

I  give  me  being,  and  most  of  those  who  had  made  that  being 
tolerable.   To  me  the  lines  of  Young  are  no  fifction  :— 

I      '*  Insatiate  archer !  could  not  one  suffice  ? 

Thy  shaft  flew  thrice,  and  thrice  ray  peace  was  slain, 
And  thrice  ere  thrice  yon  moon  haa  filled  her  horn.*' 
1  ^tbould  have  ventured  a  verse  to  the  memory  of  the  late 
Charles  Skinner  Matthews,  Fellow  of  Downing  College, 
Caaibridce,  were  he  not  too  much  above  all  praise  of  mine. 
Uis  powe'n  of  mind,  shown  in  the  attainment  of  greater  hon- 
ors, against  the  ablest  candidates,  than  those  of  any  gradu- 
■«  ca  record  at  Cambridge,  have  sufficiently  established 

•  [The  *  Needy  Knife-grinder,"  in  the  Anti-jacobin,  was 
i  joiat  prododlon  of  Messrs.  Frere  and  Canning.] 


XCI. 

And  thou,  my  friend  !* — since  unavailing  wo 
Bursts  from  my  heart,  and  mingles  with  the  strain — 
Had  the  sword  laid  thee  with  the  mighty  low, 
Pride  might  forbid,  e'en  Friendship  to  complain : 
But  thus  unlaureU'd  to  descend  in  vain, 
By  all  forgotten,  save  the  lonely  breast, 
And  mix  unbleeding  with  the  boasted  slain, 
While  Glory  croMms  so  many  a  meaner  crest ! 
What  hadst  thou  done  to  sink  so  peacefuUy  to  rest? 

XCII. 
Oh,  known  the  earliest,  and  esteem*d  the  most  !• 
Dear  to  a  heart  where  naught  was  left  so  dear ! 
Though  to  my  hopeless  days  forever  lost. 
In  dreams  deny  me  not  to  see  tliee  here ! 
And  Mom  in  secret  shall  renew  the  tear 
Of  Consciousness  awakmg  to  her  woes, 
And  Fancy  hover  o'er  thy  bloodless  bier. 
Till  my  frail  frame  return  to  whence  it  rose. 
And  moum'd  and  mourner  lie  united  in  repose. 

XCIII. 
Here  is  one  fytte  of  Harold's  pilgrimage : 
Ye  who  of  him  may  further  seek  to  know. 
Shall  find  some  tidings  in  a  future  page, 
If  he  that  rhymeth  now  may  scribble  moe. 
Is  this  too  much  ?  stem  Critic !  say  not  so  : 
Patience !  and  ye  shaU  hear  what  he  beheld 
In  other  lands,  where  he  was  doomM  to  go : 
Lands  that  contain  the  monuments  of  Eld,  | 

Ere  Greece  and  Grecian  arts  by  barbarous  hands 
were  queU'd.* 


bis  fame  on  the  spot  where  it  was  acquired ;  while  his  softer 
qualities  live  in  the  recollection  of  friends  who  loved  him 
too  well  to  envy  his  superiority— [This  and  the  following 
stanza  were  added  in  August.  1811.    In  one  of  his  school- 
boy poems,  entitled  "Chfldish  Recollections,"  Lord  Byron 
has  thus  drawn  the  portrait  of  young  Wingfield  :— 
"  Alonzo  I  best  and  dearest  of  my  friends, 
Thy  name  eimobies  him  who  thus  commends : 
From  this  fond  tribute  thou  canst  gain  no  praise ; 
The  praise  is  his  who  now  that  tribute  pays. 
Oh  !  m  the  promise  of  thy  early  youtli. 
If  hope  anticipates  the  words  of  truth, 
Some  loftier  bard  shall  sing  thy  glorious  name. 
To  build  his  own  upon  thy  deathless  fame. 
Friend  of  my  heart,  and  mremost  of  the  list 
Of  those  with  whom  I  lived  supremely  blest. 
Oft  have  we  drain'd  the  fount  of  ancient  lore. 
Though  drinking  deeply,  thirsting  still  for  more  ; 
Yet  when  confinement's  lingering  hour  was  done, 
Our  sports,  our  studies,  and  our  souls  were  one. 
In  every  element,  unchanged,  the  same, 
All,  all  that  brothers  should  be,  but  the  name." 
Matthews,  the  idol  of  Lord  Byron  at  college,  wasdro\*Tied. 
while  bathing  in  the  Cam.  on  the  2d  of  August.    The  follow- 
ing passage  of  a  letter  from  Newstead  to  his  friend  Scrope 
Davies,  written  immediately  after  the  event,  bears  the  im- 

Sress  of  strong  and  even  agonized  feelings  :— "  My  dearest 
Navies ;  some  curse  hangs  over  me  and  mine.  My  mother 
lies  a  corpse  in  the  house  ;  one  of  my  best  friends  is  drowned 
in  a  ditch.  What  can  I  say,  or  think,  or  do  ?  I  received  a  letter 
from  him  the  day  before  yesterday.  My  dear  Scrope,  il  you 
can  spare  a  moment,  do  come  down  to  me— I  want  a  fnend. 
Matthews*s  last  letter  was  written  on  Friday,— on  Saturday 
he  was  not.  In  ability,  who  was  like  Matthews  ?  How  did 
we  all  shrink  before  him !  You  do  me  but  justice  in  sa>-i  np  I 
would  have  risked  my  paltry  existence  to  have  preserved  his. 
This  very  evening  dia  I  mean  to  wnte,  invitmg  him.  as  I 
invite  you,  my  very  dear  friend,  to  visit  me.  VVhat  will  our 
poor  Hobhouse  ft>el  1  His  letters  breathe  but  of  Mattht  w s 
Come  to  me,  Scrope,  I  am  almost  desolate— left  ahuost 
alone  in  the  world  !'^— Matthews  was  the  son  of  John  ^lat- 
thews,  Esq.,  (the  representative  of  Heicfordshire,  in  the 
parliament  of  1802-6,)  and  brother  of  the  author  of  "  The 
Diary  of  an  Invalid,"  also  untimely  snatched  away.] 
a  ["  Beloved  the  most."— MS.] 
»  f"  Dec.  30th,  180»."-MS.) 


36 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  :|. 


UHILDE  HAKOLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


04irro  TUK  uooirD. 


I. 


Com,  blue-eyed  maid  of  heaven ! — bat  thoa,  alas ! 
Didst  never  yet  one  mortal  song  inspire— 
Groddess  of  Wisdom !  here  thy  temple  was, 
And  is,  despite  of  war  and  wasting  fire,* 
And  years,  that  bade  thy  worship  to  expire : 
But  worse  than  steel,  and  flame,  and  ages  slow, 
Is  the  dread  sceptre  and  dominion  dire 
Of  men  who  never  felt  the  sacred  glow 
That  tlioughts  of  thee  and  thine  on  polishM  breasts 

iMStOW. 

II. 

Ancient  of  days !  august  Athena  !*  where. 
Where  are  thy  men  of  might?  thy  grand  in  sotd? 
Grone — glimmering  throu^  the   draam   of  thmgs 

uiat  were : 
First  m  the  race  that  led  to  Glory's  goal. 
They  won,  and  paas'd  away — is  this  the  whole? 
A  schoolboy's  tale,  the  wonder  of  an  hour ! 
The  warrior's  weapon  and  the  sophist's  stole 
Are  sought  in  vain,  and  o'er  each  mouldering 

tower. 
Dim  with  the  mist  of  years,  gray  flits  the  shade  of 

power. 


1  Part  of  the  Acropolis  was  destroyed  bv  the  explosion  of  a 
magazine  during  the  Venetian  sieffe.— (On  the  nigbest  part 
of  Lycabettus,  as  Chandler  was  informed  by  an  eye-witness, 
the  Venetians,  in  IA87,  placed  four  mortars  and  six  pieces  or 
cannon,  when  they  battered  the  Acropolis.  One  of  tne  bombs 
was  fatal  to  some  of  the  sculpture  on  the  west  front  of  the 
Parthenon.  "  In  1667,"  says  Mr.  Hobhouse, "  every  antiquity 
of  which  there  is  now  any  trace  in  the  Acropolis,  was  in  a 
tolerable  state  of  preservation.  This  great  temple  might,  at 
that  period,  be  called  entire ;— having  been  previously  a 
Christian  church,  it  was  then  a  mosque,  the  most  beautiAil 
in  the  world.  At  present,  only  twenty-nine  of  the  Doric 
columns,  some  of  which  no  longer  support  their  entablatures, 
and  part  of  the  left  wall  of  the  cell,  remain  standing.  Those 
of  the  north  side,  the  angular  ones  excepted,  have  all  fallen. 
The  portion  yet  standing,  cannot  fail  to  fill  the  mind  of  the 
indinerent  spectator  with  sentiments  of  astonishment  and 
awe ;  and  the  same  reflections  arise  upon  the  sight  even  of 
the  enormous  masses  of  marble  ruins  which  are  spread  upon 
the  area  of  the  temple.  Such  scattered  fragments  will  soon 
constitute  the  sole  remains  of  the  Temple  of  Minerva.*'] 

9  We  can  all  feel,  or  imagine,  the  regret  with  which  the 
ruins  of  cities,  once  the  capitals  of  empires,  are  beheld :  the 
reflections  suggested  by  such  objects  are  too  trite  to  require 
recapitulation.  But  never  did  the  httleness  of  man,  ana  the 
vanity  of  his  very  best  virtues,  of  patriotism  to  exalt,  and  of 
valor  to  defend  his  country,  appear  more  conspicuous  than 
in  the  record  of  what  Athens  was.  and  the  certainty  of  what 
she  now  is.  This  theatre  of  contention  between  miehty  fac- 
tions, of  the  struggles  of  orators,  the  exaltation  and  deposi- 
tion of  tyrants,  tne  triumph  and  punishment  of  generals,  is 
now  become  a  scene  of  petty  intrigue  and  perpetual  disturb- 
ance, between  the  bickering  agents  of  certain  British  nobility 
and  gentry.  ••  The  wild  foxes,  the  owls  and  serpents  in  the 
ruins  of  Babylonj"  were  surely  less  degrading  than  such  in- 
habitants. The  Turks  have  Uie  plea  of  conquest  for  their 
tyranny,  and  the  Greeks  have  only  suffered  the  fortune  of 
war,  incidental  to  the  bravest ;  but  how  are  the  mighty  fallen, 
when  two  painters  contest  the  privilege  of  plunderinf  the 
Parthenon,  and  triumph  m  turn,  according  to  the  tenor  of 
each  succeeding  Arman !  Sy Ua  could  but  punish,  Philip  sub- 
due, and  Xerxes  bum  Athens ;  but  it  remained  for  the  paltry 
antiquarian,  and  his  despicable  agents,  to  render  her  con- 
temptible as  himself  and  his  pursuits.  The  Parthenon,  be- 
fore its  destructiou  in  part,  by  fire  during  the  Venetian  siege. 


III. 

Son  of  the  mormng,  rise !  approach  you  here ! 
Come — but  molest  not  you  defenceless  urn : 
Look  on  this  spot — a  nation's  sepulchre  ! 
Abode  of  gods,  whose  shrines  no  longer  bum. 
Even  gods  must  yield — ^religions  take  their  turn : 
Twas  Jove's — 'tis  Mahomet's — and  other  creeds 
Will  rise  with  other  yean,  till  man  shall  learn 
Vainly  his  incense  soars,  his  victim  bleeds ; 
Poor  child  of  Doubt  and  Death,  whose  hope  is  buflC 
on  reeds.* 

IV. 

Bound  to  the  earth,  he  lifts  his  eye  to  heaven — 
Is't  not  enough,  unhappy  thing !  to  know 
Thoa  art?  Is  this  a  boon  so  kindly  given, 
That  being,  thou  wouldst  be  again,  and  go, 
Thou  know'st  not,  reck'st  not  to  what  region,  so     ■ 
On  earth  no  more,  but  mingled  with  the  skies? 
Still  wilt  thou  dream^  on  future  joy  and  wo? 
Regard  and  weigh  yon  dust  before  it  flies : 
That  Uttle  urn  saitn  more  than  thousand  homilies. 


Or  burst  the  vanish'd  Hero's  lofty  mound ; 
Far  on  the  solitary  shore  he  sleeps  :* 
He  fell,  and  falling  nations  moum'd  around ; 
But  now  not  oue  of  saddening  thousands  weeps, 
Nor  warlike  worshipper  his  vigil  keeps 
Where  demi-gods  appear'd,  as  records  telL 
Remove  yon  skull  from  out  tlie  scattered  heaps : 
Is  that  a  temple  where  a  God  may  dwell  ? 
Why  ev'n  the  worm  at  last  disdains  her  shatter'd  cell ! 


had  been  a  temple,  a  church,  and  a  mosque.  In  each  point 
of  view  it  is  an  object  of  regard :  it  changed  its  worshippers  ; 
but  still  it  was  a  place  of  worship  thrice  sacred  to  devotion : 
its  violation  is  a  inple  sacrifice.    But— 

''Man,  proud  man, 

Dress'd  in  a  little  brief  authonty. 

Plays  such  fantasuc  tncks  before  high  heaven 

As  make  the  angels  weep  " 
s  [In  the  original  MS.  we  find  the  following  note  to  this 
and  the  five  following  stanzas,  which  liad  been  prepared  for 
publication,  but  was  afterwards  withdrawn,  "  from  a  fear," 
says  the  poet.  **  that  it  miffhi  be  considered  rather  as  an  at- 
tack, than  a  defence  of  reliihon  :*'— "  In  this  age  of  bigotry, 
when  the  puritan  and  priest  have  changed  places,  and  the 
wretched  Catholic  is  visited  with  the '  sins  of  his  fathers.* 
even  unto  generations  far  beyond  the  pale  of  tlie  command- 
ment, the  cost  of  opinion  in  these  stanzas  wHl,  doubtln&s, 
meet  with  many  a  contemptuous  anathema.  But  let  it  be 
remembered,  that  the  spirit  they  breathe  is  despondine,  not 
sneering,  skepticism  ;  that  he  who  has  seen  the  Greek  and 
Moslem  superstitions  contending  for  mastery  over  the  former 
shrines  of  Polytheism— who  has  left  in  his  own, '  Pharisees, 
thanking  God  that  they  arc  not  like  publicans  and  sinners,* 
and  Spaniards  in  theirs,  abhorring  the  heretics,  who  have 
hoh>en  them  in  their  need,— will  be  not  a  little  bewildered, 
and  begin  to  think,  that  as  only  one  of  them  can  be  right, 
they  may,  most  of  them,  be  wrong.  With  regard  to  morals, 
ana  the  effect  of  religion  on  mankind,  it  appears,  from  all 
historical  testimony,  to  have  had  less  effect  in  making  them 
love  their  neighbors,  than  inducing  that  cordial  Christian 
abhorrence  between  sectaries  and  schismatics.  The  Turks 
and  Quakers  are  the  most  tolerant :  if  an  Infidel  pays  his 
heratch  to  the  former,  he  may  pray  how,  when,  and  where 
he  pleases  ;  and  the  mild  tenets,  and  devout  demeanor  of 
the  latter,  make  their  lives  the  truest  commentary  on  the 
Sermon  on  the  Mount."] 

*  ["StiU  wilt  thou  harp."-MS.] 

*  It  was  not  always  the  custom  of  the  Greeks  to  bum  their 
dead ;  the  greater  Ajax,  m  particular,  was  interred  entire.  | 
Ahnost  all  the  chiefs  became  gods  aAei  their  decease  ;  and  ! 
he  was  indeed  neglected,  who  had  not  annual  rames  near 
his  tomb,  or  festivals  in  honor  of  his  memory  by  nit  country* 
men,  as  Achilles,  Brasidas,  4cc.,  and  at  last  even  Antioons* 
whose  death  was  as  heroic  as  his  life  was  infamous. 


Canto  ii. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


27 


VL 
Look  on  Hi  broken  arch,  its  rain'd  wall, 
Its  chamben  deaolate,  and  portals  foul : 
Tra,  this  was  once  Ambition*!  airy  hall, 
The  dome  of  Thought,  the  palace  of  the  Soul: 
Behold  through  each  lack-lustre,  eyeless  holoi 
The  gay  recess  of  Wisdom  and  of  Wit, 
And  Panion's  host,  that  never  brook'd  control : 
Can  all  saint,  sage,  or  sophist  ever  writ, 
pBeple  this  kmely  tower,  this  tenement  refit  ? 

vn. 

Wen  didst  thou  speak,  Athena's  wisest  son ! 
"  AH  that  we  know  is,  nothing  can  be  known." 
Why  should  we  shrink  from  miat  we  cannot  shun  ? 
Each  hath  his  pang,  but  feeble  snfieren  groan 
With  hrain-boni  dreams  of  evil  all  their  own. 
Porsao  what  Chance  or  Fate  proclaimeth  best ; 
Peace  waits  ns  on  the  shores  of  Acheron : 
There  no  forced  banquet  claims  the  sated  guest, 
But  Silence  spreads  the  couch  of  ever  welcome  rest 

VIII. 

Yet  if»  as  holiest  men  have  deem*d,  there  be 
A  land  of  souls  beyond  that  sable  shore. 
To  shame  the  doctrine  of  the  Sadducee 
And  0ophists,  madly  vain  of  dubious  lore ; 
How  sweet  it  were  in  concert  to  adore 
With  those  who  made  our  mortal  labors  light ! 
To  hear  each  voice  we  fear'd  to  hear  no  more ! 
Behold  each  mi^ty  shade  revealM  to  sight. 
The  Bectrian,  Samian  sage,  and  all  who  taiu4it  the 

IX. 
There,  thou ! — whose  love  and  life  together  fled, 
Have  left  me  here  to  love  and  live  in  vain — 
Twined  with  my  heart,  and  can  I  deem  thee  dead. 
When  busy  memory  flashes  on  my  brain  T 
Well — I  will  dream  that  we  may  meet  again, 
And  woo  the  vision  to  my  vacant  breast : 
If  aught  of  young  Remembrance  then  remam, 
Be  as  it  may  Futurity's  behest. 
For  me  Hwere  bliss  enough  to  know  thy  spirit  blest  !* 


*  (In  the  original  MS.,  for  this  magnificent  stanza,  we  find 
what  follows : — 
"■  Frown  not  upon  me,  churlish  Priest !  that  I 
Look  not  for  life,  where  life  may  never  be ; 
I  am  no  sneerer  at  thy  phantasy : 
Thou  pitirst  me,— alas!  I  envy  tnee, 
Thou  Dol   discoTerer  in  an  unknown  sea, 
Of  haroy  §1^  and  happier  tenants  there ; 
I  ask  thee  not  to  prove  a  Sadducee ; 
Sull  dream  of  Paradise,  thou  know'st  not  where, 
But  lov*st  too  well  to  bid  thine  erring  brother  share.'*] 

«  [Lord  Byron  wrote  this  stanza  at  Newstead,  in  October, 

1611.  on  hearing  of  tV:  death  of  his  Cambridge  friend,  young 

i  Eddkttone;  "making.**  he  says,  '*the  sixth,  within  four 

months,  of  frieods  ana  relations  that  I  have  lost  between 

I  May  and  the  end  of  August.'*    See  pott^  Hours  of  Idleness, 

,  •*  T*he  Coroelian."] 

'(••The  thought  and  the  expression,**  says  Professor 
Clarke,  in  a  letter  to  Lord  Byron,  "  are  here  so  truly  Pe- 
trarefa*s,  thai  I  would  ask  you  whether  you  ever  read,— 

•  Poi  qaaodo  *1  vero  sgombra 
Quel  doice  error  pur  li  medesmo  assido, 
Me  freddo,  pietra  morta  in  pietra  viva ; 
In  guisad*  uom  cb^  pensi  e  piange  e  scriva  ;* 

"  Thus  rendered  by  Wilmol,— 
'  Bat  when  rude  truth  destroys 
The  kned  illusion  of  the  dreamed  sweets, 
Intwte  damn  on  the  cold  rugged  stone. 
Less  eold,  less  dead  than  I,  and  think  and  weep  alone.' **] 


Here  let  me  sit  upon  this  massy  stoue,' 
The  marble  column's  yet  unshaken  base ; 
Here,  son  of  Saturn !  was  thy  fav*rite  throne  :* 
Mightiest  of  many  such  !  Hence  let  me  trace 
The  latent  grandeur  of  thy  dwelling-place. 
It  may  not  be :  nor  ev*n  can  Fancy's  eye 
Restore  what  Time  hath  labor'd  to  deface. 
Yet  these  proud  pillars  claim  no  paasinsr  sigh ; 
Uimioved  the  Moslem  sits,  the  light  Greek  carols  by. 

XI. 

But  who,  of  all  the  plunderers  of  yon  fane 
On  high,  where  Pallas  linger'd,  loath  to  flee 
The  latest  relic  of  her  ancient  reign ; 
The  last,  the  worst,  dull  spoiler,  who  was  he  ? 
Blush,  Caledonia !  such  thy  son  could  be ! 
England !  I  joy  no  child  he  was  of  thine : 
Thy  free-born  men  should  spare  what  once  was  free ; 
Yet  they  could  violate  each  saddening  shrine. 
And  bear  these  altara  o'er  the  long-reluctant  brine.* 

XIL 

But  most  the  modem  Pict's  ignoble  boast, 

To  rive  what  Goth,  and  "Ihirk,  and  Time  hath 

spared: 
Cold  as  the  crags  upon  his  native  coast,* 
His  mind  as  barren  and  his  heart  as  hard, 
Is  he  whose  head  conceived,  whose  hand  prepar«^« 
Aught  to  displace  Athena's  poor  remains : 
Her  sous  too  weak  the  sacred  shrine  to  guard. 
Yet  felt  some  portion  of  their  mother's  pains,^ 
And  never  knew,  till  then,  the  weight  of  Despot's  chains. 

xin. 

What !  shall  it  e'er  be  said  by  British  tongue, 
Albion  was  happy  in  Athena's  tears? 
Though  in  thy  name  the  slaves  her  bosom  wrung, 
Tell  not  the  deed  to  blushing  Europe's  ears ; 
The  ocean  queen,  the  free  Britannia,  bears 
The  last  poor  plunder  from  a  bleeding  land : 
Yes,  she,  whose  gen'rous  aid  her  name  endears, 
Tore  down  those  remnants  with  a  harpy's  hand. 
Which  envious  Eld  forbore,  and  tyrants  left  to  stand." 


*  The  temple  of  Jupiter  Olympius,  of  which  sixteen  col- 
umns, entirely  of  marble,  yet  survive:  originally  there 
were  one  hunored  and  fifty.  These  columns,  however,  are 
by  many  supposed  to  have  belonged  to  the  Pantheon. 

»  See  Appendix  to  this  Canto,  [A,]  for  a  note  too  long  to  be 
placed  here.    The  ship  was  wrecked  in  the  Archipelago. 

•  ["  Cold  and  accursed  as  his  native  coast.'*— MS.] 

7 1  cannot  resist  availing  myself  of  the  permission  of  my 
friend  Dr.  Clarke,  whose  name  reouires  no  comment  with 
the  public,  but  whose  sanction  will  add  tenfold  weight  to 
my  testimony,  to  insert  the  following  extract  from  a  very 
obliffing  letter  of  his  to  me,  as  a  note  to  the  above  lines  :— 
**  when  the  last  of  the  metopes  was  taken  from  the  Parthe- 
non, and,  in  moring  of  it,  great  part  of  the  superstructure 
with  one  of  the  triglyphs  was  thrown  down  by  the  workmen 
whom  Lord  Elgin  employed,  the  Disdar,  who  beheld  the 
mischief  done  to  the  buildmg,  took  his  pipe  from  bis  mouth, 
dropped  a  tear,  and,  in  a  supplicating  tone  of  voice,  said  to 
Lusieri,  TAoj  •— I  was  present."  The  Disdar  alluded  to 
was  the  father  of  the  present  Disdar. 

»  [After  stanza  xiii.  the  original  MS.  has  the  foUowing  :— 
"  Come,  then,  ye  classic  Thanes  of  each  degree 

Dark  Hamilton  and  sullen  Aberdeen, 

Come  pilfer  all  the  Pilgrim  loves  t«  see. 

All  that  yet  consecrates  the  fading  scene : 

Oh  I  better  were  it  ye  had  never  been. 

Nor  ye,  nor  Elgin,  nor  that  lesser  wight. 

The  Victim  sad  of  vase-collecting  spleen, 

House-furnisher  withal,  one  Thomas  hight. 
Than  ye  should  bear  one  stone  from  wrong*d  Athena*s  sits. 


28 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


XIV. 

Where  was  thine  Mg^B,  Pallas !  that  appall'd 
Stern  Alaric  and  Havoc  on  their  way?* 
Whore  Peleus*  son  ?  whom  Hell  in  vain  inthrall*d, 
His  shade  from  Hades  upon  that  dread  day 
Bursting  to  light  in  terrible  array ! 
What !  could  not  Pluto  spare  the  chief  once  more, 
To  scare  a  second  robber  from  his  prey? 
Idly  he  wander'd  on  the  Stygian  shore, 
Nor  now  preserved  the  walls  he  loved  to  shield  before. 


XV. 

Cold  is  the  heart,  fiur  Greece !  that  looks  on  thee. 
Nor  feels  as  lovers  o*er  the  dust  they  loved ; 
Dull  is  the  eye  that  will  not  weep  to  see 
Thy  walls  defaced,  thy  mouldering  shrines  removed 
By  British  hands,  which  it  had  b^t  behooved 
To  guard  those  relics  ne'er  to  be  restored. 
Cursed  be  the  hour  when  from  their  isle  they  roved. 
And  once  again  thy  hapless  bosom  gored, 
And  snatch'd  thy  shrinking  Gods  to  northern  climes 
abhorr'd ! 

XVI. 
But  where  is  Harold?  shall  I  then  forget 
To  urge  the  gloomy  wanderer  o*er  the  wave? 
Little  reck*d  he  of  all  that  men  regret ; 
No  loved-one  now  in  feigu'd  lament  could  rave ; 
No  friend  the  parting  hand  extended  gave. 
Ere  the  cold  stranger  passed  to  other  climes: 
Hard  is  his  heart  whom  charms  may  not  enslave ; 
But  Harold  felt  not  as  in  other  times, 
And  left  without  a  sigh  the  land  of  war  and  crimes. 


XVII. 

He  that  has  sailM  upon  the  dark  blue  sea 
Has  view'd  at  times,  I  ween,  a  full  fair  sight ; 
When  the  fresh  breeze  is  fair  as  breeze  may  boi 
The  white  sail  set,  the  gallant  frigate  tight ; 
Masts,  spires,  and  strand  retiring  to  the  right, 
The  glorious  main  expanding  oVr  the  bow. 
The  convoy  spread  like  wild  swans  in  their  flight, 
The  dullest  sailer  wearing  bravely  now. 
So  gayly  curl  the  waves  before  each  dashing  prow. 


XVIII. 

And  oh,  the  little  wariike  worid  within ! 
The  well -reeved  guns,  the  netted  canopy,* 
The  hoarse  command,  the  busy  humming  din. 
When,  at  a  word,  the  tops  are  maun'd  on  high : 
Hark,  to  the  Boatswain's  call,  the  cheering  cry  ! 
While  through  the  seaman's  hand  the  tackle  glides ; 
Or  schoolboy  Midshipman  that,  standing  by. 
Strains  his  shrill  pipe  as  good  or  ill  betides, 
And  well  the  docile  crew  that  skilful  urchin  guides. 


Or  will  the  gentle  Dilettanti  crew 
Now  delegate  the  task  to  digging  Gell, 
That  mighty  limner  of  a  birds'-eye  view, 
How  like  to  Nature  let  his  volumes  tell : 
Who  can  with  him  the  folio's  limits  swell 
With  all  the  Author  saw,  or  said  he  saw? 
Who  can  toi>ographize  or  delve  so  well  ? 
No  boaster  ne,  nor  impudent  and  raw, 
His  pencil,  pen,  and  shade,  alike  without  a  flaw."] 

»  According  o  Zosimus,  Minerva  and  Achilles  frightened 
Alaric  from  the  Acropolis ;  but  others  relate  that  the  Gothic 


XIX. 

White  is  the  glassy  deck,  without  a  stain. 
Where  on  the  watch  the  staid  Lieutenant  walks : 
Look  on  that  part  which  sacred  doth  remain 
For  the  lone  chieftain,  who  majestic  stalks, 
Silont  and  fear'd  by  all — ^not  oft  he  talks 
With  aught  beneath  him,  if  he  would  preserve 
That  strict  restraint,  which  broken,  ever  balks 
Conquest  and  Fame :  but  Britons  rarely  swerve 
From  law,  however  stem,  which  tends  their  strength 
to  nerve.* 

XX. 

Blow !  swiftly  blow,  thou  keel-compelling  gale ! 
Till  the  broad  sun  withdraws  his  lessening  ray ; 
Then  must  the  pcnnant-bearer  slacken  sail. 
That  lagging  barks  may  make  their  lazy  way. 
Ah !  grievance  eare,  and  listless  dull  delay. 
To  waste  on  sluggidi  hulks  the  sweetest  breeze ! 
What  leagues  are  lost,  before  the  dawn  of  day. 
Thus  loitering  pensive  on  the  willing  seas. 
The  flapping  Miil  haul'd  down  to  halt  for  logs  like 
these! 

XXI. 

The  moon  is  up ;  by  Heaven  a  lovely  eve ! 
Long  streams  of  li^t  o'er  dancing  waves  expand ; 
Now  lads  on  shore  may  sigh,  and  maids  beUeve : 
Such  be  our  fate  when  we  return  to  land ! 
Meantime  some  rude  Arion's  restless  hand 
Wakes  the  brisk  harmony  that  sailors  love  ;* 
A  circle  there  of  merry  listeners  stand. 
Or  to  some  well-known  measure  featly  move. 
Thoughtless,  as  if  on  shore  they  still  were  free  to  rove 


XXII. 

Through  Calpe's  straits  survey  the  steepy  shore ; 
Europe  and  Afric  on  each  other  gaze ! 
Lands  of  the  dark-eyed  Maid  and  dusky  Moor 
Alike  beheld  beneath  pale  Hecate's  blaze : 
How  softly  on  the  Spanish  shore  she  plays. 
Disclosing  rock,  and  slope,  and  forest  brown. 
Distinct,  though  darkening  with  her  waning  phase ; 
But  Mauritania's  giant-shadows  frown. 
From  mountain-cliff  to  coast  descending  sombre  down. 

XXIIL 

*Tis  night,  when  Meditation  bids  us  feel 
We  once  have  loved,  though  love  is  at  an  end : 
The  heart,  lone  mourner  of  its  bafiled  zeal. 
Though  friendless  now,  will  dream  it  had  a  friend.* 
Who  with  the  weight  of  years  would  wish  to  bend, 
When  Youth  itself  survives  young  Love  and  Joy? 
Alas !  when  mingling  souls  forget  to  blend. 
Death  hath  but  little  left  him  to  destroy !        [boy?* 
Ah!  happy  years!  once  more  who  would  not  be  a 


king  was  nearly  as  mischievous  as  the  Scottish  peer.— See 
Chandler. 

3  To  prevent  blocks  or  splinters  from  falling  on  deck 
during  action. 

>  ["  From  Discipline's  stem  law,"  Ac— MS.] 

*  f"  Plies  the  brisk  instrument  that  sailor's  love."— MS.] 

*  [♦♦  Bleeds  the  lone  heart,  once  boundless  in  its  zeal. 

And  friendless  now,  yet  dreams  it  had  a  friend.'  — 
MS.] 
'  ['  Ah !  happv  years !  I  would  I  were  once  more  a  boy.** 


CaITTO   II. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


29 


XXIV. 

Tliiv  bending  o'er  the  veflsers  Isving  side, 
To  gaze  on  Dianas  wave-reflected  inhere, 
The  0oal  forgets  her  schemes  of  Hope  and  Pride, 
And  flies  nnconscioos  o*er  each  backward  year. 
None  are  so  desolate  but  something  dear, 
Dearer  than  self,  possesses  or  possMs'd 
A  thought,  and  claims  the  homage  of  a  tear ; 
A  flailing  pang !  of  which  the  weary  breast 
Would  still,  att>eit  in  vain,  the  heavy  heart  divest 

XXV. 

To  sit  OD  rocks,  to  muse  o*er  flood  and  fell. 
To  slowly  trace  the  forest's  shady  scene, 
Where  things  that  own  not  man's  dominion  dwell, 
And  mortal  foot  hath  ne'er  or  rarely  been  ; 
To  climb  the  trackless  mountain  all  unseen, 
WHh  the  wild  flock  that  never  needs  a  foM ; 
Akme  o'er  steeps  and  foaming  falls  to  lean ; 
This  is  not  solitude ;  'tis  but  to  hold  [unroU'd. 

CsBverw  with  Nature's  channs,  and  view  her  eUxna 

XXVI. 

But  'midst  the  crowd,  the  hum,  the  shock  of  men. 
To  hear,  to  see,  to  feel,  and  to  possess. 
And  roam  along,  the  world's  tiied  denizen, 
With  none  who  bless  us,  none  whom  we  can  blesi ; 
Minions  of  splendor  shrinking  from  distress ! 
None  that,  with  kindred  consciousness  endued, 
If  we  were  not,  would  seem  to  smile  the  less 
Of  an  that  flatter'd,  follow'd,  sought,  and  sued; 
This  is  to  be  alone ;  this,  this  is  solitude ! 

XXVII. 

More  blest  the  life  of  godly  eremite, 
Sodi  as  on  lonely  Athoe  may  be  seen,' 
Watchmg  at  eve  upon  the  giant  height. 
Which  kK»ks  o'er  waves  so  blue,  skies  so  serene, 
Hi  a .  he  who  there  at  such  an  hour  hath  been 
WiL  wistful  linger  on  that  hallow'd  spot ; 
llien  slowly  tear  him  from  the  witching  scene. 
Sigh  forth  one  wish  that  such  had  been  his  lot, 
Tlien  turn  to  hate  a  worid  he  had  almost  forgot 

XXVIII. 
Pass  we  the  long,  unvarying  course,  the  track 
Oft  trod,  that  never  leaves  a  trace  behind ; 
Pan  we  the  calm,  the  gale,  the  change,  the  tack, 
Afid  each  well  known  caprice  of  wave  and  wind ; 
Pas  we  the  joys  and  sorrows  sailors  find, 
Coofj  '  in  their  winged  sea-girt  citadel ; 
The  fool,  the  fair,  the  contrary,  the  kind. 
As  breezes  rise  and  fall  and  billows  swell, 
TSi  on  some  jocund  mom — lo,  land !  and  all  is  weU. 


>  [One  of  Lord  Byron's  chief  delights  was,  as  he  himself 
MMiet  in  one  of  his  ioomaUi,  after  bathing  in  some  retired 
•pot,  to  seat  hinvseli  on  a  high  rock  above  the  sea,  and  there 
retnain  for  hours,  gazing  upon  the  sky  and  the  waters.  "  He 
U^  Jie  life,"  says  Sir  Egerton  Brydges,  **  as  he  wrote  the 
itrmms,  of  a  true  poet.  He  could  sleep,  and  very  frequently 
did  slepp.  wrapped  up  in  hi  9  rough  great-coat,  on  the  hard 
ba«rd»  of  a  deck,  while  the  winds  nna  the  waves  were  roar- 
feg  round  him  on  every  side,  and  could  subsist  on  a  crust 
sad  a  i^Mss  of  water.  It  would  be  difficult  to  persuade  me, 
tku  he  who  is  a  coxcomb  in  his  manners,  ana  artificial  hi 
k»  habits  of  life,  could  write  good  poetry.'*] 

*  Ooza  is  said  to  have  been  the  island  of  Calypso.  ['*  The 
■Jentity  of  the  habitation  assisped  by  poets  to  the  nymph 
Calypso,  has  occasioned  much  discussion  and  variety  of 
oomoD.  Some  place  it  at  Malta,  and  some  at  Ooza.**— 
Hoare's  Classical  Tour.] 

*  [For  an  account  of  this  accomplished  but  eccentric  lady, 


XXIX. 

But  not  in  silence  pass  Calypso's  isles,' 

The  sister  tenants  of  the  middle  deep ; 

There  for  the  weary  still  a  haven  smiles. 

Though  the  fair  goddess  long  hath  ceased  to  weep, 

.   And  o'er  her  c]ifl&  a  fruitless  watch  to  keep 
For  him  who  dared  prefer  a  mortal  bride  : 
Here,  too,  his  boy  essay'd  the  dreadful  leap 
Stem  Mentor  urged  from  high  to  yonder  tide ; 

While  thus  of  both  bereft,  the  nymph -queen  doubly 
sighU 

XXX. 
Her  reign  is  past,  her  gentle  glories  gone : 
But  trust  not  this ;  too  easy  youth,  beware  \ 
A  mortal  sovereign  holds  her  dangerous  throne, 
And  thou  mayst  find  a  new  Calypso  there. 
Sweet  Florence !  could  another  ever  share 
This  wa3rward,  loveless  heart,  it  would  be  thine : 
But  checked  by  every  tie,  I  may  not  dare 
To  cast  a  wordiless  offering  at  thy  shrine. 

Nor  ask  so  dear  a  breast  to  feel  one  pang  for  mine. 

XXXL 

Thus  Harold  deem'd,  as  on  that  lady's  eye 
He  look'd,  and  met  its  beam  without  a  thought, 
Save  Admiration  glancing  harmless  by : 
Love  kept  aloof,  idbeit  not  far  remote. 
Who  knew  his  votary  often  lost  and  caught. 
But  knew  him  as  his  worshipper  no  more. 
And  ne'er  again  the  boy  his  bosom  sought : 
Since  now  he  vainly  ur^ed  him  to  adore. 
Well  deem'd  the  little  God  his  ancient  sway  was  o'er. 

XXXIL 

Fair  Florence*  foimd,  in  sooth  with  some  amaze. 
One  who,  'twas  said,  still  sigh'd  to  all  he  saw. 
Withstand,  unmoved,  the  lustre  of  her  gaze, 
Which  others  hail'd  with  real  or  mimic  awe. 
Their  hope,  their  doom,  their  punishment,  their  law ; 
All  that  gay  Beauty  from  her  bondsmen  claims : 
And  much  she  marvell'd  that  a  youth  so  raw 
Nor  feh,  nor  feign'd  at  least,  the  oft-told  flames. 
Which,  though   sometimes  they  frown,  yet  rarely 
anger  dames. 

XXXIIL 

Little  knew  she  that  seeming  marble  heart, 
Now  mask'd  in  silence  or  withheld  by  pride, 
Was  not  unskilful  in  the  spoiler^s  art,* 
And  spread  its  snares  licentious  far  and  wide  f 
Nor  from  the  base  pursuit  had  tum'd  aside. 
As  long  as  aught  was  worthy  to  pursue : 
But  Harold  on  such  arts  no  more  relied ; 
And  had  he  doted  on  those  eyes  so  blue, 
Yet  never  would  he  join  the  lover's  whining  crew. 


whose  acquaintance  the  poet  formed  at  Malta,  see  Miscel- 
laneous Poems,  September,  1809,  "  To  Florence."  "  In  one 
so  imaginctive  as  Lord  Byron,  who,  while  he  infused  so 
much  of  his  life  into  his  poetry,  mingled  also  not  a  little  of 
poetrr  with  his  life,  it  is  difficult,"  says  Moore,  "  in  unravel-   ; 
ling  the  texture  of  his  feelings,  to  distinguish  at  all  times  be- 
tween the  fanciful  and  the  real.    His  description  Aerr,  for   ] 
instance,  of  the  unmoved  and  •  loveless  heart,'  with  which   i 
he  contemplated  even  the  charms  of  this  attractive  person, 
is  wholly  at  variance  with  the  statements  in  manv  of  his 
letters ;  and,  above  all,  with  one  of  the  most  ^racciul  of  his 
lesser  poems,  addressed  to  this  same  lady,  during  a  thunder- 
storm on  his  road  to  Zitza."j 

*  [Against  this  line  it  is  sufficient  to  set  the  poet's  own 
declaration,  in  1821 :— "  I  am  not  a  Joseph,  nor  a  Scipio,  but 
1  can  safely  affirm,  that  I  never  in  my  life  seduced  anv 
woman."] 

•  ["  We  have  here  another  instance  of  his  propensity  to 


30 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  n. 


XXXIV. 

Not  much  he  kens,  I  ween,  of  woman's  breast. 
Who  thinks  that  wanton  thing  is  won  by  sighs ; 
What  careth  she  for  hearts  when  once  poBsesB*d7 
Do  proper  homage  to  thine  idol's  eyes ; 
But  not  too  hunu>ly,  or  she  will  despise 
Thee  and  thy  suit,  though  told  in  moving  tropes ; 
Disguise  ev*n  tenderness,  if  thou  art  wise ; 
Brisk  Confidence'  still  best  with  woman  copes ; 
Pique  her  and  sooth  iu  turn,  soon  Passion  crowns  thy 
hopes. 

XXXV. 

'Tis  an  old  lesson ;  Time  approves  it  tme. 
And  those  who  know  it  best,  deplore  it  most ; 
When  all  is  won  that  all  desire  to  woo. 
The  paltry  prize  is  hardly  worth  the  cost : 
Youth  wasted,  minds  degraded,  honor  lost. 
These  are  thy  fruits,  successful  Passion !  these . 
If,  kiudly  cruel,  eariy  Hope  is  crossed, 
Still  to  the  last  it  raukles,  a  disease. 
Not  to  be  cured  when  Love  itself  forgets  to  pli 


XXXVI. 

Away !  nor  let  me  loiter  in  ray  song, 
For  we  have  many  a  mountain-path  to  tread, 
And  many  a  varied  shore  to  sail  along. 
By  pensive  Sadness,  not  by  Fiction,  led — 
Climes,  fair  withal  as  ever  mortal  head 
Imagined  in  itd  little  schemes  of  thought ; 
Or  e'er  in  new  Utopias  were  ared. 
To  teach  man  what  he  might  be,  or  he  ought : 
If  that  corrupted  thing  could  ever  such  be  taught 

XXXVII. 
Dear  Nature  is  the  kindest  mother  still, 
Though  alway  changing,  in  her  aspect  mild ; 
From  her  bare  bosom  let  me  take  my  fill. 
Her  never-weau'd,  though  not  her  favor'd  child. 
Oh !  she  is  fairest  iu  her  features  wild. 
Where  nothing  polish'd  dares  pollute  her  path : 
To  me  by  day  or  uight  she  ever  smiled. 
Though  I  have  mark* d  her  wheu  none  other  hath, 
And  sought  her  more  and  more,  and  loved  her  best  in 
wrath. 

XXXVIIL 

Land  of  Albania !  where  Iskander  rose, 
Thome  of  the  young,  and  beacon  of  the  wise, 
And  he  his  namesake,  whose  oft-baffled  foes 
Shrunk  from  his  deeds  of  chivalrous  emprise : 
Laud  of  Albania !'  let  me  bend  mine  eyes 
On  thee,  thou  rugged  nurse  of  savage  men ! 
The  cross  descends,  thy  minarets  arise. 
And  the  palf   rrescent  sparkles  in  the  glen, 
Through  many  a  cypress  grove  within  each  city's  ken 


j   self-raisrepreseutation.     However  great  might  have  been 
the  irregulHrities  of  bis  college  life,  such  phrases  as  *  the 

I  spoiler's  art,'  and  '  spreading  snares,*  were  in  no  wise  ap* 

'   plicable  to  Uiem."— Moobk.J 

•  [*•  Brisk  Impudence,**  Ac— MS.] 
s  See  Appendix  to  this  Canto,  Note  [B.] 
a  Ithaoa.— ["  Sept.  94th,**  says  Mr.  Hobboose.  **  we  were 
in  the  channel,  with  Ithaca,  then  in  the  hands  ot  the  French, 
to  the  west  of  us.  We  were  close  to  it,  and  saw  a  few  shrubs 
on  a  brown  heathy  land,  two  little  towns  in  the  hills,  scat- 
tered among  trees,  and  a  windmill  or  two,  with  a  tower  on 
the  heignts.  That  Ithaca  was  not  very  strongly  garrisoned, 
vou  will  easily  believe,  when  I  tell,  that  a  month  afterwards, 
wiien  the  Ionian  Islands  were  invested  by  a  British  squadron, 
it  was  surrendered  into  the  hands  of  a  sergeant  and  seven 


XXXIX. 

Childe  Harold  saii'd,  and  passM  the  barren  spot. 
Where  sad  Penelope  o'erlook'd  the  wave  ;• 
And  onward  viewM  the  mount,  not  yet  forgot, 
The  lover's  refuge,  and  the  Lesbian^s  grave. 
Dark  Sappho !  could  not  verse  inmnortal  save 
That  breast  imbued  with  such  immortal  fire  7 
Could  she  not  live  who  life  eternal  gave  ? 
If  life  eternal  may  await  the  lyi'^v 
That  only  Heaven  to  which  Earth's  children  may 
aspire. 

XL. 
'Twas  on  a  Grecian  autumn's  gentle  eve 
Childe  Harold  hail'd  Leucadia's  cape  afar  ;^ 
A  spot  he  k>ng*d  to  see,  nor  cared  to  leave : 
Oft  did  he  mwk  the  scenes  of  vanished  war, 
Actium,  Lepanto,  fatal  Trafalgar  f 
Mark  them  unmoved,  for  he  would  not  delight 
(Bom  beneath  some  remote  inglorious  star) 
In  themes  of  bloody  fray,  or  gallant  fight,     f wight 
But  loathed  the  brave's  trade,  and  laugh'd  at  mactial 

XLL 

But  when  he  saw  the  evening  star  above 
Leucadia's  far-projecting  rock  of  wo. 
And  hail'd  the  last  resort  of  fruitless  love, 
He  felt,  or  deem'd  he  felt,  no  common  glow : 
And  as  the  stately  vessel  glided  slow 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  that  ancient  mount. 
He  watch'd  the  billows*  melancholy  flow. 
And,  sunk  albeit  in  thought  as  he  was  wont. 
More  placid  seem'd  his  eye,  and  smooth  his  pallid 
fiont^ 

XLIL 

Mom  dawns ;  and  with  it  stem  Albania's  hills. 
Dark  Suli's  rocks,  and  Pindus'  inland  peak. 
Robed  half  in  mist,  bedew'd  with  snowy  rills, 
Array'd  in  many  a  dun  and  purple  streak. 
Arise  ;  and,  as  the  clonds  along  them  break, 
Disclose  the  dwelling  of  the  mountaineer: 
Here  roams  the  wolf,  the  eagle  whets  his  beak. 
Birds,  beasts  of  prey,  and  wilder  men  appear,  [year. 
And  gathering  storms  around  convulse  the  closing 

XLIIL 

Now  Harold  felt  himself  at  length  alone. 
And  bade  to  Christian  tongues  a  long  adien ; 
Now  he  adventured  on  a  wiore  unknown. 
Which  all  admire,  but  many  dread  to  view: 
His  breast  was  arm'd  'gainst  fate,  his  wants  were  fe^ ; 
Peril  he  sought  not,  but  ne'er  shrank  to  meet : 
The  scene  was  savage,  but  the  scene  was  new ; 
This  made  the  ceaseless  toil  of  travel  sweet,   [heat 
Beat  back  keen  winter's  blast,  and  welcomed  summer's 


men."  For  a  very  curious  account  of  the  state  of  the  king- 
dom of  Ulysses  in  1816,  see  William8*8  Travels,  vol.  ii.  p.  497.] 
4  Leucadia,  now  Santa  Maura.  From  the  promontory  (the 
Lovers  Le^)  Si^ipho  is  said  to  have  thrown  herself.—  I 
[**  Sept.  38th,  we  doubled  the  promontory  of  Santa  Maura,  I 
and  saw  the  precipice  which  the  fate  of  Sappho,  the  poetry 
of  Ovid,  and  the  rocks  so  formidable  to  the  ancient  man- 
ners, have  made  forever  memorable." — Hobhousb.1  > 

*  Actium  and  Trafalgar  need  no  further  mention.    The   i 
battle  of  Lepanto,  equally  bloody  and  considerable,  but  less   ' 
known,  was  fouffht  in  the  Gulf  of  Patras.    Here'  the  author 
of  Don  Quixote  lost  his  left  hand. 

•  (*'  And  roused  him  more  from  thought  than  he  was  wont, 

While  Pleasure  almost  seem'd  to  smooth  his  plaeia 
front."— MS.] 


Curro  n. 


CHILDE  HAROLD*S  •  PILGRIMAGE. 


31 


XUV 
Here  the  red  cron,  for  still  the  cnm  ie  here, 
Though  saiUj  scoff'd  at  by  the  ctrcanicieed, 
Forgets  that  pride  to  pamperM  priesthood  dear ; 
Chnichman  and  votary  alike  despised. 
Foo!  Superstition !  howsoever  disguised, 
Idol,  saint,  virgin,  prophet,  crescent,  crow. 
For  whatsoever  symbol  thou  art  prized, 
Then  saceidota]  gain,  but  general  loss ! 
Who  from  tmo  wonhip's  gold  can  separate  thy  dress  ? 

XLV. 
Ambracia's  gulf  behold,  where  once  was  lost 
A  world  for  woman,  lovely,  harmless  thing ! 
In  yonder  rippling  bay,  their  naval  host 
Did  many  a  R^an  chief  and  Asian  king* 
To  doubtful  conflict,  certain  slaughter  bring : 
Look  where  the  second  Casar's  trophies  rose  !* 
Now,  like  the  hands  that  rear'd  them,  withering ; 
Imperial  anarchs,  doubling  human  woes  ! 
God  !  was  thy  globe  ordain'dfor  such  to  win  and  lose  ? 

XLVL 
From  the  dark  barriers  of  that  rugged  clime, 
Ev'u  to  the  centre  of  lUyria's  vales, 
Childe  Harold  pass*d  o*er  many  a  mount  sublime, 
Through  lands  scarce  noticed  in  historic  tales ; 
Yet  in  famed  Attica  such  lovely  dales 
Are  rarely  seen  ;  nor  can  fair  Tempo  boast 
A  charm  they  know  not ;  loved  Parnassus  fails, 
Though  clasac  ground  and  consecrated  most. 
To  match  some  spots  that  lurk  within  this  lowering 


XLVII. 

He  pasi'd  bleak  Pindus,  Achemsia's  lake,* 
And  left  the  primal  city  of  the  land. 
And  <mwards  did  his  further  journey  take 
To  greet  Albania*s  chief,*  whose  dread  command 
Is  lawless  law  ;  for  with  a  bloody  hand 
He  sways  a  nation,  turbulent  and  bold : 
Tet  here  and  there  some  daring  mountain-band 
Disdain  his  power,  and  from  their  rocky  hold 
Hori  thmr  defiance  far,  nor  yield,  unless  to  gokL* 

1  It  is  said,  that,  on  the  dav  prerioas  to  the  battle  of 

ArtinTn.  Antony  had  thirteen  Kings  at  his  levee.— ["  To- 
)  day/*  (Nor.  12,)  **  I  taw  the  remains  of  the  town  of  Actium, 

aear  which  Antony  lost  the  worid,  in  a  small  bay.  where 
'  two  frigates  could  hardly  manoeuvre :  a  broken  wall  is  the 

sole  remnant.    On  another  part  of  the  gulf  stand  the  ruins 
1  of  Nkxipolis,  built  by  Augustus,  in  honor  of  his  victory.**— 
•  Lmd  Byrvm  to  his  Mother,  1809.] 
I     «  Nicopolis,  whose  ruins  are  most  extensive,  is  at  some 

distance  from  Actium,  where  the  wall  of  the  Hippodrome 

sorriTes  in  a  few  fra^ents.    These  ruins  are  Uurge  masses 
,  of  brickwork,  the  bncks  of  which  are  joined  by  interstices 

of  mortar,  as  large  as  the  bricks  themselves,  and  equally 

donble. 

*  According  to  Pooqueville,  the  lake  of  Tanina :  but  Pou- 
'  queriUe  is  always  out. 

*  The  celebrated  AU  Pacha.    Of  this  extraordinary  man 
I  there  is  an  mcorrect  account  in  Poaquerille's  Travels.— f"  I 
I  left  Malta  m  the  Spider  brig-of>war,  on  the  21st  of  Septem- 
ber, and  arrived  v\  eight  days  at  Prevesa.    I  thence  have 
trarersed  the  interior  of  the  province  of  Albania,  on  m  visit 

I  to  the  Pacha,  as  far  as  Tcpaleen,  his  highness*s  country 
asbce,  where  I  sUyed  three  days.    The  name  of  the  Pacha 

I  b  Ali«  and  he  is  considered  a  man  of  the  first  abilities :  he 

j  nvems  the  whole  of  Albania,  (the  ancient  Uljrricum,) 
Xomis,  and  part  of  Macedonia.**— B.  to  his  Mother.^ 
•five  thousand  Suliotcs,  among  the  rocks  and  in  the 

I  castle  of  S*ili,  withstood  thirty  thousand  Albanians  for 
sifhteen  years  ;  the  castle  at  last  was  taken  by  bribery.    In 

,  His  oouest  there  were  several  acu  performed  not  un- 

)  «o^7  rf  •}••  better  days  of  Greece. 

*  Ta^j  coBvent  and  village  of  Zitxa  are  four  hours*  journey 


j     •Ta^ 


XLVIIL 

Monastic  Zitza  !*  from  thy  shady  brow. 
Thou  small,  but  favor'd  spot  of  holy  ground ! 
Where'er  we  gaze,  around,  above,  below. 
What  rainbow  tints,  what  magic  charms  are  found ! 
Rock,  river,  forest,  mountain,  all  abound, 
And  bluest  skies  that  harmonize  the  whole : 
Beneath,  the  distant  torrent's  rushing  sound 
Tells  where  the  vdumed  cataract  doth  roll 
Between  those  hanging  rocks,  that  shock  yet  please 
the  souL 

xux. 

Amidst  the  grove  that  crowns  yon  tufted  hill, 
Which,  were  it  not  for  many  a  mountain  nigh 
Rising  in  lofty  ranks,  and  loftier  still. 
Might  well  itself  be  deem'd  of  dignity. 
The  convent's  white  walls  glisten  fair  on  high : 
Here  dwells  the  caloyer,^  nor  rude  is  he. 
Nor  niggard  of  his  cheer ;  the  passer  by 
Is  welcome  still ;  nor  heedless  will  he  nee 
From  hence,  if  he  delight  kind  Nature's  sheen  .o  see. 


Here  in  the  sultriest  season  let  him  rest. 
Fresh  is  the  greeu  beneath  those  aged  trees ; 
Here  winds  of  gentlest  wing  will  fan  his  breast, 
From  heaven  itself  he  may  inhale  the  brMae : 
The  plain  is  far  beneath— oh  !  let  him  seill 
Pure  pleasure  while  he  can  ;  the  scorching  ray 
Here  pierceth  not,  impregnate  with  disease : 
Then  let  his  length  the  loitering  pilgrim  lay, 
And  gaze,  untired,  the  mom,  the  noon,  the  eve  away. 

LI. 
Dusky  and  huge,  enlarging  on  the  sight, 
Nature's  volcanic  amphitheatre," 
Chimasra's  alps  extend  from  left  to  right : 
Beneath,  a  living  valley  seems  to  stir ;  [fir 

Flocks  play,  trees  wave,  streams  flow,  the  mountain- 
Nodding  above ,  behold  i)lack  Acheron  I* 
Once  consecrated  to  the  sepulchre. 
Pluto !  if  this  be  hell  I  look  upon,  [none.  *" 

Close  shamed  Elysium's  gates,  my  shade  shall  seek  for 


from  Joannina,  or  Yanina,  the  capital  of  the  Pachalick.  In 
the  valley  the  river  Kalamas  (once  the  Acheron)  flows,  and, 
not  far  from  Zitza^  forms  a  fine  cataract.  The  situation  Is 
perhani  the  finest  m  Greece,  though  the  approach  to  Del- 
vinachi  and  parts  of  Acamania  and  ^Etolia  may  contest  the 
palm.  Delphi,  Parnassus,  and.  in  Attica,  even  Cape  Ck>lon- 
na  and  Port  Raphti,  are  very  inferior ;  as  also  every  scene 
in  Ionia,  or  theTroud :  I  am  almost  inclined  to  add  the  ap- 
proach  to  Constantinople  ;  but,  from  the  different  features 
of  the  last,  a  comparison  can  hardly  be  made,  f  **  Zitza," 
says  the  poet's  companion,  *'  is  a  village  inhabited  ^t7reek 
peasants.  Perhaps  there  Is  not  in  the  world  a  more  romantic 

E respect  than  that  which  is  viewed  from  the  summit  of  the 
ill.  The  foreground  is  a  gentle  declivity,  terminating  on 
every  side  in  an  extensive  landscape  of  green  hills  and  dale, 
enriched  with  vineyards,  and  dotted  with  frequent  flocks."] 
'  The  Greek  monks  are  so  called.— [«*  We  went  into  the 
monastery,"  says  Mr.  Hobhouse,  *'  alter  some  parley  with 
one  of  the  monks,  through  a  small  door  plated  with  iron,  on 
which  the  marks  of  violence  were  very  apparent,  and  which, 
before  the  country  had  been  tranquillized  under  the  power- 
ful government  of  All,  had  been  battered  in  vain  oy  the 
troops  of  robbers  then,  by  turns,  infesting  every  district. 
The  prior,  an  humble,  meek-mannered  man,  entertained  us 
in  a  warm  chamber  with  grapes,  and  a  pleasant  white  wine, 
not  trodden  out,  as  he  told  us,  by  the  feet,  but  pressed  from 
the  grape  by  the  hand  ;  and  we  were  so  well  pleased  with 
every  thing  about  us.  that  we  agreed  to  lodge  with  him  oa 
our  return  from  the  Vixier."] 

*  The  Chimariot  mountains  appear  to  have  been  volcanic 

•  Now  called  Kalamas. 

»•  t"  Keep  heaven  for  better  souls,  my  shade,**  dec.— MS.] 


32 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


LII. 

Ne  city'n  towers  pollute  the  lovely  view ; 
Unseen  is  Yanina,  thou^  not  remote, 

j       Veil'd  by  the  Bcreen  of  hills :  here  men  are  few, 
Scanty  the  hamlet,  rare  the  lonely  cot ; 
But«  peering  down  each  precipice,  the  goat 
Browpeth ;  and,  pensive  o*er  his  scatterd  flock, 
The  little  shepherd  in  his  white  capote* 

I       Doth  lean  his  boyish  form  along  the  rock, 
Or  in  his  cave  awaits  the  tempesrs  short-lived  shock. 

LIII. 

Oh  !  where,  Dodona !  is  thine  aged  grove. 
Prophetic  fount,  and  oracle  divine? 
What  valley  echoed  the  response  of  Jove? 
What  trace  remaineth  of  the  Thunderer's  shrins  ? 
All,  all  forgotten — and  shall  man  repine 
That  his  frail  bonds  to  fleeting  life  are  broke? 
Cease,  fool !  the  fate  of  gods  may  well  be  thine : 
Wouldst  thou  survive  the  marble  or  the  oak  ? 
When  nations,  tongues,  and  worlds  must  sink  beneath 
the  stroke ! 

LIV. 

Epinw*  bounds  recede,  and  mountains  fail ; 
Tired  of  up-gazing  still,  the  wearied  eye 
Reposes  gladly  on  as  smooth  a  vale 
As  ev^  Spring  yclad  in  grassy  die : 
Ev'u  on  a  plain  no  humble  beauties  lie. 
Where  some  bold  river  breaks  the  long  expanse, 
And  woods  along  the  banks  are  waving  high. 
Whose  shadows  in  the  glassy  waters  dance,  [trance. 
Or  with   the  moonbeam  sleep  in  midnight's  solenm 

LV. 

The  sun  had  sunk  behind  vast  Tomerit,* 
And  Laos  wide  and  fierce  came  roaring  by  ;• 
The  shades  of  wonted  night  were  gathering  yet. 
When,  down  the  steep  banks  wiu<Sng  warily, 
Childe  Harold  saw,  like  meteors  in  the  sky. 
The  glittering  minarets  of  Tepalen, 
Whose  walls  o'eriook  the  stream ;  and  drawing  nigh, 
He  heard  the  busy  hum  of  warrior-men  [glen.* 

Swelling  the  breexe  that  sigh'd  along  the  lengthening 

LVL 

He  pass'd  the  sacred  Harem's  silent  tower, 
And  underneath  the  wide  o'erarching  gate 
Survey'd  the  dwelling  of  this  chief  of  power. 
Where  all  around  proclaimed  his  high  estate. 

1  Albanese  cloak. 

«  Anciently  Mount  Tomarus. 

>  The  river  Laos  was  full  at  the  time  the  author  passed 
it ;  and,  immediately  above  Tepaleen,  was  to  the  eye  as 
wide  as  the  Thames  at  Westramsler :  at  least  in  the  opinion 
of  the  author  and  his  fellow-traveller.  In  the  summer  it 
must  be  much  narrower.  It  cerlainly  is  the  finest  river  in 
the  Levant ;  neither  Achelous^  Alpheus,  Acheron,  Seaman- 
der,  nor  Cayster,  approached  it  in  breadth  or  beauty. 

« f"  Ali  Pacha,  hearing  that  an  Englishman  of  rank  was  in 
his  dominions,  left  orders,  in  Yanina,  with  the  commandant, 
to  provide  a  house,  and  supoly  me  with  every  kind  of  neces- 
sary gratis.  I  rode  out  on  the  nzier's  horses,  and  saw  the 
palaces  of  himself  and  grandsons.  I  shall  never  forget  the 
fimgular  scene  on  entering  Tepaleen,  at  five  in  the  afternoon. 
' Oct .  1 1 , )  OS  the  sun  was  going  down.  It  brought  to  my  mind 
(with  some  change  of  drras,  however)  Scott's  description  of 
Braiiksome  Castle  in  his  Lay,  and  the  feudal  system.  The 
AibaniaiLS  in  their  dresses ;  (the  most  magnijicent  in  the 
world,  consisting  of  a  long  white  kilt,  gold-worked  cloak, 
crunson  velvet  gold-laced  jacket  and  waistcoat,  silver- 
mounted  pistols  and  daggers  ;)  the  Tartars,  with  their  hieh 
caps ;  the  Turks  m  their  vast  pelisses  and  turbos ;  the 
soldiers  and  black  slaves  with  the  horses,  the  former  in 


Amidst  no  common  pomp  the  despot  sate. 
While  busy  preparation  shook  the  court, 
Slaves,  eimuchs,  soldiers,  guests,  and  santons  wait ; 
Within,  a  palace,  and  without,  a  fort  t 
Here  men  of  every  clime  appear  to  make  iMort 

LVIL 

Richly  caparison'd,  a  ready  row 
Of  armed  horse,  and  many  a  warlike  store. 
Circled  the  wide-eitendiug  court  below ; 
Above,  strange  groups  adom'd  the  corridore  ; 
And  ofitimes  through  the  area's  echoing  door. 
Some  high-capp'd  Tartar  sporr'd  his  steed  away : 
The  Turk,  the  Greek,  the  Albanian,  and  the  Moor, 
Here  mingled  iu  their  many-hued  array,      [of  day. 
While  the  deep  war-drum's  sound  announced  the  dose 

LVIII. 

The  wild  Albanian  kirUed  to  his  knee. 
With  shawl -girt  head  and  ornamented  gun. 
And  gold-embroider'd  garments,  fair  to  see : 
The  crimson-scarfed  men  of  Macedon  ; 
The  Delhi  with  his  cap  of  terror  on. 
And  crooked  glaive  ;  the  lively,  supple  Greek  ; 
And  swarthy  Nubia's  mutilated  son  ; 
The  bearded  Turk,  that  rarely  deigns  to  q>eak, 
Master  of  all  aroimd,  too  potent  to  be  meek, 

LIX. 

Are  miz'd  conspicuous :  some  recline  in  groups, 
Scanning  the  motley  scene  that  varies  round  ; 
There  some  grave  Moslem  to  devotion  gtoopa. 
And  some  that  smoke,  and  some  that  play,  are  foond ; 
Here  the  Albaniau  proudly  treads  the  ground  ; 
Half-whispering  there  the  Greek  is  heard  to  prate  ; 
Hark !  from  the  mosque  the  nightly  solemn  sound, 
The  Muezzin's  call  doth  shake  the  minaret, 
«  There  is  no  god  but  God ! — to  prayer — ^lo !  God  is 
great  ?*• 

LX. 

Just  at  this  season  Ramazani's  fast' 
Through  the  long  day  its  penance  did  maintain : 
But  when  the  lingering  twilight  hour  was  past. 
Revel  and  feast  assimied  the  rule  again  : 
Now  all  was  bustle,  and  the  menial  train 
Prepared  and  spread  the  plenteous  board  within ; 
The  vacant  gallery  now  seem'd  made  in  vain, 
But  from  the  chambers  came  the  mingling  din. 
As  page  and  slave  anon  were  passing  out  and  in. 


groups,  in  an  immense  large  open  gallery  in  front  of  the 
palace,  the  latter  placed  in  a  kind  of  cloister  below  it ;  two 
hundred  steeds  ready  caparisoned  to  move  in  a  moment ; 
couriers  enterinRor  passing  out  with  dispatches ;  the  kettle- 
drums beating ;  boys  c.illing  the  hour  from  the  minaret  of 
the  mosque  ;— altogether,  with  the  singular  appearance  of 
the  building  itself,  formed  a  new  and  delightrul  spectacle 
to  a  strai  ger.  1  was  conducted  to  a  very  handsome  apart- 
ment, and  my  health  inquired  after  by  the  vizier's  secretary^ 
•  i.  la  mode  Turque.' "— i^.  Letterg.} 

»  ["  On  our  arrival  at  Tepaleen,  we  were  lodged  in  the 
palace.  During  the  night,  we  were  disturbed  by  the  per- 
petual carousal  which  seemed  to  be  kept  up  in  the  gallery, 
and  by  the  drum,  and  the  voice  of  the  *  Muezzin,*  or  cnnUler, 
calling  the  Turks  to  prayers  from  the  minaret  or  the  mosek 
attached  to  the  palace.  The  chanter  was  a  boy,  and  he  san^  I 
out  his  hymn  in  a  sort  of  loud  melancholy  recitative.  He 
, : .1 —  .u .  _r  -\QgQ  fg^  words : 

is  no  god  but 
.     .  prayer;  come 

to  the  asylum  of  salvation ;  great  God !  there  is  no  god  but 

God  !*  "— HOBHOUSK.J 

•  ["  We  were  a  little  unfortunate  in  the  time  we  chose  for 
travelling,  for  it  was  during  the  Ramazan,  or  Turkish  Lent, 
which  feu  this  year  in  October,  and  was  hailed  at  the  rising 


Canto  ii. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


33 


LSI. 
Here  woman's  Toice  is  nevw  hea«d :  apart, 
And  mcMJce  pennitted,  gaarded,  veil'd,  to  mcnre. 
She  yields  to  one  her  penon  and  her  heart, 
Tanied  to  her  cage,  nor  feels  a  wish  to  roTO ; 
For,  not  unhappy  in  her  master's  love, 
I       Aud  joyful  in  a  mother's  gentlest  cares. 
Blest  cares !  all  other  feelings  far  above .' 
Heraelf  more  sweetly  rears  Uie  babe  she  bean. 
Who  never  quits  the  broast,  no  meaner  passion  shaies. 

LXIL 

In  maiUe-paved  pavilion,  where  a  spring 
Of  living  water  from  the  centre  rose, 
Whose  babbtittg  did  a  genial  freshness  fling, 
And  soft  voluptuous  couches  breathed  repose, 
Au  reclined,  a  man  of  war  and  woes :' 
Yet  in  his  lineaments  ye  cannot  trace, 
While  Gentleness  her  milder  radiance  throws 
Aloog  that  aged  venerable  face. 
The  d^ds  that  lurk  beneath,  and  stain  him  with 
disgrace. 

LXIII. 
It  is  not  that  yon  hoary  lengthening  beard 
III  suits  the  passions  which  belong  to  youth :" 
Ixjve  conquers  age— so  Hafiz  ham  averrM, 
So  sings  the  Teian,  and  he  sings  in  sooth — 
But  crimes  that  scorn  the  tender  voice  of  ruth, 
Bceeeming  all  men  ill,  but  most  the  man 
In  years,  have  mark'd  him  with  a  tiger's  tooth : 
Bkiod  foHows  Uood,  and,  through  their  mortal  span. 
In  bloodier  acts  conclude  those  who  with  blood  began.* 

LXIV. 
Ilfid  many  things  most  new  to  ear  and  eye 
The  pilgrim  rested  here  his  weary  feet, 
And  gaxed  around  on  Moeiem  luxury,^ 
Till  quickly  wearied  with  that  spacious  seat 
Of  Wealth  and  Wantonness,  the  choice  retreat 
Of  sated  Grandeur  from  the  city's  noise : 
And  were  it  humbler  it  in  sooth  were  sweet ; 
But  Peace  abhorreth  artificial  joys, 
And  Pleasure,  leagued  with  Pomp,  the  zest  of  both 
destroys. 


of  the  new  moon,  on  the  erening  of  the  8th»  by  every  demon- 
■truion  of  jojr :  but  although,  during  this  moath,  tne  strict- 
est absttaence  is  observed  m  the  daytime,  yet  with  the  set- 
ting of  the  sun  the  feasting  commences ;  then  is  the  time 
for  paying  and  receiving  visits,  and  for  the  amusements  of 
Turlcey,  puppet-shows,  jugglers,  dancers,  and  story-tellers.** 
— QosaoDsi.] 

>  t"  On  the  1 3th,  I  was  introduced  to  Ali  Pacha.  I  was 
dressed  in  a  full  suit  of  staff  uniform,  with  a  very  magnifi- 
eeu  ^vre,  Itc.  The  vizier  received  mo  in  a  large  room 
paved  with  marble  ;  a  fountain  was  plasring  in  the  centre  ; 
tbe  apartment  was  surrounded  by  scarlet  ottomans.  He  re- 
caved  me  slanding,  a  wonderful  compliment  from  a  Mus- 
nUmao,  and  made  me  sit  down  on  his  riffht  hand.  His  first 
mesukm  was,  why,  at  so  early  an  age,  I  left  mj  country  ? 
He  then  said,  the  English  minister.  Captain  Leake,  had 
toid  him  I  was  of  a  great  family,  and  desired  his  respects  to 
my  QoUier ;  which  1  now,  in  the  name  of  Ali  Pacha,  pre- 
seat  to  you.  He  said  he  was  certain  I  was  a  man  of  birth, 
bjeaose  I  had  small  ears,  curling  hair,  and  little  white 
fcasifw.  He  told  roe  x>  consider  him  as  a  lather  whilst  I  was 
S  Turkey,  and  said  he  looked  on  me  as  his  own  son.  In- 
oeed.  he  treated  me  like  a  child,  sending  me  almonds  and 
stffared  sbertiek  fruit,  and  sweetmeats,  twenty  times  a  day. 
1  tacD,  after  coffee  and  pipes,  retired.*'— if.  to  kis  Mother.] 
'i"  BelighU  to  mingle  with  the  lip  of  youth."— MS.] 
{Mr.  Hobbouse  describes  the  vizier  as  '^a  short  man,  about 
fve  feet  five  inches  in  height,  and  very  fat ;  possessing  a 
very  pleasing  face,  fair  and  round,  with  blue  quick  eyes,  not 
at  all  settled  mto  a  Turkish  gravity.**  Dr.  Holland  happily 
eoBBparet  the  spirit  which  lurked  imder  All's  usual  exterior. 


LXV. 

Fierce  are  Albania's  children,  yet  they  lack 
Not  virtues,  were  those  virtues  more  mature. 
Where  is  the  foe  that  ever  saw  their  back  7 
Who  can  so  well  the  toil  of  war  endure  ? 
Their  native  fastnesses  not  more  secure 
Than  they  in  doubtful  time  of  troublous  need : 
Their  wrath  how  deadly !  but  their  friendship  sure, 
When  Gratitude  or  Valor  bids  them  bleed. 
Unshaken  rushing  on  where'er  their  chief  may  lead. 

LXVI. 

Childe  Harold  saw  them  in  their  chieftain's  tower. 
Thronging  to  war  in  splendor  and  success ; 
And  after  viewed  them,  when,  within  their  power, 
Himself  awhile  the  victun  of  distress ; 
That  saddening  hour  when  bad  men  hotlier  press : 
But  these  did  welter  him  beneath  their  roof, 
When  less  barbarians  would  have  cheer'd  him  less. 
And  fellow-countrymen  have  stood  aloof* — 
In  aught  that  tries  the  heart  how  few  withstand  the 
proof! 

LXVIL 

It  chanced  that  adverse  winds  once  drove  his  baik 
Full  on  the  coast  of  Suh's  ^aggy  shore. 
When  all  around  was  desdate  and  dark ; 
To  land  was  perilous,  to  sojourn  more ; 
Yet  for  awhile  the  mariners  forbore, 
Dubious  to  trust  where  treachery  might  lurk : 
At  length  they  ventured  forth,  though  doubting  sore 
That  those  who  loathe  alike  the  Frank  and  Turk 
Might  once  agam  renew  their  ancient  butcher-work. 

LXVIII. 

Vain  fear !  the  Suliotes  stretch'd  the  welcome  hand. 
Led  them  o*er  rocks  and  past  the  dangerous  swamp. 
Kinder  than  poUsh'd  slaves  though  not  so  bland, 
And  piled  the  hearth,  and  wrung  their  garments 

damp, 
And  iill'd  the  bowl,  and  trimm'd  the  cheerful  lamp. 
And  spread  their  fare ;  though  homely,  all  they  had : 
Such  conduct  bean  Philanmropy's  rare  stamps 
To  rest  the  weary  and  to  sooth  the  sad. 
Doth  lesson  happier  men,  and  shames  at  least  the  bad. 


to  "  the  fire  of  a  stove,  buminff  fiercely  under  a  smooth  and 
polished  surface.'*  When  the  aoctor  returned  from  Albania, 
in  1813,  he  brought  a  letter  from  the  Pacha  to  Lord  Byron. 
"  It  is,"  says  the  poet,  "  in  Latin,  and  begins  *  ExceUentis- 
sime,  neenon  Carissime,*  and  ends  about  a  gun  he  wants 
made  for  him.  He  tells  me  that,  last  spring,  he  took  a  town, 
a  hostile  town,  where,  forty-two  years  ago,  his  mother  and 
sisters  were  treated  as  Miss  Cunegunde  was  by  the  Bulga- 
rian cavalry.  He  takes  the  town,  selects  all  the  survivors 
of  the  exploit— children,  grand-children,  <cc.,  to  the  tune  of 
six  hundred,  and  has  them  shot  before  his  face.  So  much 
for  *  dearest  friend.'  "] 

*  [The  fate  of  Ali  v,na  precisely  such  as  the  poet  antici- 
pated. For  a  circumstantial  account  of  his  assassination, 
m  February,  1823,  see  Walsh's  Journey.  His  liead  was  sent 
to  Constantinople,  and  exhibited  at  the  gates  of  the  seraglio. 
As  the  name  or  Ali  liad  made  a  considerable  noise  in  Eng- 
land, in  consequence  of  his  negotiations  with  Sir  Thomas 
Maitland,  and  still  more,  perhaps,  these  stanzas  of  Lord 
Byron,  a  merchant  of  Constantinople  thought  it  would  be 
no  baa  speculation  to  purchase  the  nead  and  consirn  it  to  a 
London  showman ;  but  this  scheme  was  defeated  by  the 
piety  of  an  old  servant  of  the  Pacha,  who  bribed  the  execu^ 
tioner  viith  a  higher  price,  and  bestowed  decent  sepuUurs 
on  the  relic] 

*  [*<  Childe  Harold  with  the  chief  held  colloquy. 

Yet  what  they  spake  it  boots  not  to  repeat : 
Converse  may  little  charm  strange  ear  or  eve , 
Albeit  he  rested  on  that  spacious  seat 
Of  Moslem  luxury,"  fcc.— MS.] 

*  Alluding  to  the  wreckers  of  CorawalL 


34 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


LXIX. 

It  came  to  pan,  that  when  he  did  addrets 
Himflelf  to  quit  at  leugth  this  mountain-land. 
Combined  marauders  half-way  barr'd  egreas, 
And  wasted  far  and  near  with  glaive  and  brand ; 
And  therefore  did  he  take  a  trusty  band 
To  traverse  Acamania's  forest  wide, 
In  war  well  seasoned,  and  with  labore  tann'd, 
Till  he  did  greet  white  Achelous*  tide, 
And  from  his  further  bank  £tolia*B  wolds  eqned. 

LXX. 

Where  lone  Utraikey  forms  its  circling  cove, 
And  weary  waves  retire  to  gleam  at  rest. 
How  brown  the  foliage  of  the  green  hilPs  grove, 
Nodding  at  midnight  o*er  the  ^m  bay's  breast. 
As  winds  come  whispering  lightly  from  the  west, 
Kissing,  not  ruffling,  the  blue  deep*s  serene : — 
Here  Harold  was  received  a  welcome  guest ; 
Nor  did  |ie  pass  unmoved  the  gentle  scene,  [glean. 
For  many  a  joy  could  he  from  Night's  soft  presence 

LXXL 

On  the  smooth  shore  the  night-fires  brightly  blazed, 
The  feast  was  done,  the  red  wine  circling  fast,* 
And  he  that  unawares  had  there  ygazed 
With  gaping  wonderment  had  stared  aghast ; 
For  ere  night's  midmost,  stillest  hour  was  past, 
The  native  revels  of  the  troop  began  ; 
Each  Palikai*  his  sabre  from  him  cast, 
And  bounding  hand  in  hand,  man  link'd  to  man. 

Yelling  their  uncouth  dirge,  long  daunced  the  kirtled 
clan.' 

LXXIL 
Childe  Harold  at  a  little  distance  stood. 
And  view'd,  but  not  displeased,  the  revelry, 
Nor  hated  harmless  mirth,  however  rude : 
In  sooth,  it  was  no  vulgar  sight  to  see 
Their  barbarous,  yet  their  not  indecent,  gleo ; 
And,  as  the  flames  along  their  faces  gleam'd. 
Their  gestures  nimble,  dark  eyes  flashing  free. 
The  long  wild  locks  that  to  their  girdles  stream'd, 

While  thus  in  concert  they  this  lay  half  sang,  half 
scream'd  :*— 

1. 

Tamboukgi  !  Tambourgi  !*  thy  lamm  afar 

Gives  hope  to  the  valiant,  and  promise  of  war ; 

All  the  nns  of  the  mountains  arise  at  the  note, 

Chimariot,  Illyrian,  and  dark  Suliote  .** 


1  The  Albanian  Mussulmans  do  not  abstain  from  wine, 
and,  indeed,  very  few  of  the  others. 

s  Palikar,  shortened  when  addressed  to  a  single  person 
from  HaXtKapt^  a  general  name  for  a  soldier  amongst  the 
Greeks  and  Albanese  who  speak  Romaic :  It  means,  proper- 
ly, "a  lad." 

» [The  following  is  Mr.  Hobjcase's  animatei  descriptioi 
of  this  scene:—**  In  the  evening  the  gates  y^€..}  secured 
and  preparations  were  mode  for  feeding  our  Albanians.    A 

Scat  was  killed  and  roasted  whole,  and  four  fires  were  kin- 
led  in  the* yard,  round  which  the  soldiers  seated  them- 
selves in  parties.  After  eating  and  drinking,  the  greatest 
part  of  them  assembled  rouna  the  largest  of  the  fires,  and, 
whilst  ourselves  and  the  elders  of  the  party  were  seated  on 
the  ground,  danced  round  the  blaze,  to  their  own  songs, 
with  astonishing  energy.  All  their  songs  were  relations  of 
some  robbing  exploits.  One  of  them,  which  detained  them 
more  than  an  hour,  began  thus :— '  >Vhen  we  set  out  from 
Parga,  there  were  sixty  of  us :'  then  came  the  burden  of 
the  verse,— 

'  Robbers  all  at  Parga ! 

Robbers  all  at  Parga  !* 

*  KXc^rcif  Tore  JJapya  ' 

KXtfrtts  rort  TlapY"^  '* 

and  as  they  roared  out  this  stave,  they  whirled  round  the 

Ire,  dropped,  and  rebounded  from  their  knees,  and  again 


3. 

Oh !  who  is  more  brave  than  a  dark  Suliote, 

In  his  snowy  camese  and  his  shaggy  capote  ? 

To  the  wolf  and  the  vulture  he  leaves  his  wild  flocrk. 

And  descends  to  the  plain  like  the  stream  from  the  rock. 

3. 
Shall  the  sons  of  Chimari,  who  never  forgive 
The  fault  of  a  friend,  bid  an  enemy  live  ? 
Let  those  guns  so  unerring  such  vengeance  forego  ? 
What  mark  is  so  fair  as  the  breast  of  a  foe  ? 

4 
Macedonia  sends  forth  her  invincible  race ; 
For  a  time  they  abandon  the  cave  and  the  chase : 
But  those  scarfs  of  blood-red  shall  be  redder,  before 
The  sabre  is  sheath'd  and  the  battle  is  o'er. 

5. 
Then  the  pirates  of  Parga  that  dwell  by  the  waves. 
And  teach  *he  pale  Franks  what  it  is  to  be  slaves. 
Shall  leave  on  the  beach  the  long  galley  and  oar. 
And  track  to  his  covert  the  captive  on  shore. 

6. 
I  ask  not  the  pleasures  that  riches  supply. 
My  sabre  shall  win  what  the  feeble  must  buy ; 
Shall  win  the  young  bride  with  her  long  flowing  hmir. 
And  many  a  maid  from  her  mother  sh^  tear. 

7. 
I  love  the  fair  face  of  the  maid  in  her  youth. 
Her  caresses  shall  lull  me,  her  music  shall  sooth ; 
Let  her  bring  from  her  chamber  the  many-toned  lyre. 
And  sing  us  a  song  on  the  fall  of  her  sire. 

8. 
Remember  the  moment  when  Previsa  fell,^ 
The  shrieks  of  the  conquer'd,  the  conquerors*  yell ; 
The  roofs  that  we  fired,  and  the  plunder  we  shared, 
The  wealthy  we  slaughter'd,  the  lovely  we  spared. 

9. 
I  talk  not  of  mercy,  I  talk  not  of  fear ; 
He  neither  nnist  know  who  would  serve  the  Vizier : 
Since  the  days  of  our  prophet  the  Crescent  ne'er  saw 
A  chief  ever  glorious  like  Ali  Pashaw. 

10. 
Dark  Muchtar  his  son  to  the  Danube  is  sped, 
Let  the  yellow-hair'd'  Giaours*  view  his  hone-taiP 
with  dread,  fbanks. 

When  his  Delhis*'  come  dashing  in  blood  o^er  the 
How  few  diall  escape  from  the  Muscovite  ranks ! 

wnirled  round,  as  the  chorus  was  again  repeated.  The 
ripplmg  of  the  waves  upon  the  pebbly  margin  where  we 
were  seated,  filled  up  the  pauses  of  the  song  with  a  mdder, 
and  not  more  monotonous  music.  The  night  was  very 
dark ;  but,  by  the  flashes  of  the  fires,  we  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  woods,  tlie  rocks,  and  the  lake,  which,  together  with 
the  wild  appearance  of  the  dancers,  presented  us  with  a 
scene  that  would  have  made  a  fine  picture  in  the  hands  of 
» jch  an  artist  as  the  author  of  the  Mysteries  of  Udolpho. 
As  we  were  acquainted  with  the  character  of  the  Albamans, 
it  did  not  at  all  diminish  our  pleasure  to  know,  that  every 
one  of  our  g;uard  had  been  robbers,  and  some  of  them  a 
verv  short  time  before.  It  was  eleven  o'clock  before  we 
had  retired  to  our  room,  at  which  time  the  Albanians,  wrap- 
ping themselves  up  in  their  capotes,  went  to  sleep  round 
the  fires."] 

«  [For  a  specimen  of  the  Albanian  or  Amaout  dialect  q$ 
the  lUyric,  see  Appendix  to  this  Canto,  Note  [C.]] 

»  Drummer. 

•  These  stanzas  are  partly  taken  from  different  Albanese 
songs,  as  far  as  I  was  able  to  make  them  out  by  the  exposi- 
tion of  the  Albanese  in  Romaic  and  Italian. 

"*  It  was  taken  by  storm  from  the  French. 

•  Yellow  is  the  epithet  given  to  the  Russians. 

•  Infidel. 

»  The  insignia  of  a  Pacha. 

>'  Horsemen,  aptwering  to  our  forlorn  hope. 


Canto  ii. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


S5 


11. 
Selictar!'  nnflheath  then  our  chiers  scimitar: 
Tambonrgi !  thy  lanim  f^vee  promise  of  war. 
Ye  moantains,  that  see  ns  descend  to  the  shore, 
Shan  Tiew  us  as  Tictors,  or  view  us  no  more ! 


LXXIII. 
Fair  Greece !  sad  relic  of  departed  worth  !* 
Immortal,  though  no  more  ;  though  fallen,  great ! 
Who  now  shall  lead  thy  scattered  children  forth, 
And  long  accustomed  bondage  uncreate? 
Not  such  thy  sons  who  whilome  did  await, 
Hie  hopeless  warriors  of  a  Tvilliug  doom, 
In  Ueak  Thermopylie's  sepulchral  strait — 
Ob !  who  that  gallant  spirit  shall  resume, 
Leap  from  Eurotas'  banks,  and  call  thee  from  the  tomb  7 


LXXIV. 

Spirit  of  Freedom !  when  on  Phyle's  brow* 
llioa  sat*st  with  Thrasybulus  and  his  train, 
Cooldst  thou  forbode  the  dismal  hour  which  now 
Dims  the  green  beauties  of  thine  Attic  plain? 
Not  thirty  tyrants  now  enforce  the  chain. 
But  every  carle  can  lord  it  o'er  thy  land ; 
Nor  rise  thy  sons,  but  idly  rail  in  vain. 
Trembling  beneath  the  scourge  of  Turkish  hand, 
FVom  birth  till  death   enslaved;   in  word,  in  deed, 
unmanned. 

LXXV. 

In  all  save  form  alone,  how  changed !  and  who 
That  marks  the  fire  still  sparkling  in  each  eye. 
Who  but  wonld  deem  their  bosoms  bnmM  anew 
With  thy  nnquenched  beam,  lost  Liberty ! 

.   And  many  dream  withal  the  hour  is  ni^ 
That  gives  them  back  their  fathers*  hontage : 
For  foreign  arms  and  aid  they  fondly  sigh, 
Nor  solely  dare  encounter  hostile  rage,  [paff^ 

Or  tear  their  name  defiled  from  Slavery's  mournful 


LXXVI. 

Hereditary  bondsmen !  know  ye  not 
Who  would  be  friee  themselves  must  strike  the  blow  7 
1^ their  right  arms  the  conquest  must  be  wrought? 
Will  Gau)  or  Muscovite  redrass  ye  ?  no ! 
True,  they  may  lay  your  proud  despoileis  low. 
But  not  for  you  will  Freedom's  altars  flame. 
Shades  of  the  Helots !  triumph  o'er  your  foe ! 
Greece !  change  thy  lords,  thy  state  is  still  the  same ; 
Hiy  glorious  day  is  o*er,  but  not  thine  years  of  shame. 


I  Sword-bearer. 

t  See  some  Thoughts  on  the  present  State  of  Greece  and 
.  Turkey  in  the  Appendix  to  this  Canto,  Notes  [D1  and  [E.] 
'      *  Phyle,  which  commands  a  beautiftil  riew  of  Athens,  has 
ftUl  coosidemble  remains ;  it  was  seized  by  Thrasybulus, 
jverious  to  the  expulsion  of  the  Thirty. 

*  When  taken  bv  the  Latins,  and  retauied  for  several  years. 

*  Mecca  and  Medina  were  taken  some  time  ago  by  the 
Wahabees,  a  sect  yearly  increasing. 

*  [Of  €k>nstaDtmople  Lord  Byron  says,—"  I  have  seen  the 
^  mins  o(  Athens,  of  Ephesus,  and  Delphi ;  I  have  traversed 

great  part  of  Turkev,  and  many  other  parts  of  Europe,  and 

snme  of  Asia ;  but  I  never  beheld  a  work  of  nature  or  art 
I  which  yielded  an  impression  like  the  prospect  on  each  side, 

from  the  Seven  Towers  to  the  end  of  the  Golden  Hom-^j 
'  {**  The  view  of  Constantinople,**  says  Mr.  Rose,  "  which 

sppeared  intersected  by  groves  of  cypress,  (for  such  is  the 
I  twct  of  its  great  tNirial-groonds  planted  with  these  trees,) 
'  its  gikled  domes  and  minaret«  reflecting  the  first  rays  of  the 
'  son ;  the  deep  bine  sea  '  in  which  it  vlassed  itself,'  and  that 


Lxxvn. 

The  city  won  for  Allah  from  the  Giaour, 
The  Giaonr  frt>m  Othman's  race  again  may  wrest ; 
And  the  Serai's  inipenetrable  tower 
Receive  the  fiery  Frank,  her  former  ^nest  ;* 
Or  Wahab's  rebel  brood,  who  dared  divest 
The  prophetV  tomb  of  all  its  pious  spoil, 
May  wind  their  path  of  blood  along  the  West ; 
But  neVr  will  freedom  seek  this  fated  soil, 
But  slave  succeed  to  slave  through  years  of  endless  toil. 

LXXVIIL 

Yet  mark  their  mirth—- ere  lenten  days  begin. 
That  penance  which  their  holy  rites  prepare 
To  shrive  from  man  his  weight  of  mortal  sin. 
By  daily  abstinence  and  nightly  prayer ; 
But  ere  his  sackcloth  garb  Repentance  wear. 
Some  days  of  joyaunce  are  decreed  to  all, 
To  take  of  pleasaunce  each  his  secret  share. 
In  motley  robe  to  dance  at  masking  ball. 
And  join  the  mimic  train  of  merry  Carnival. 

LXXDL 

And  whose  more  rife  with  merriment  than  thine. 
Oh  Stamboul  !*  once  the  empress  of  their  reign  ? 
Though  turbans  now  pollute  Sophia's  shrine. 
And  Greece  her  very  altars  eyes  in  vain : 
(Alas  I  her  woes  will  still  pervade  my  strain  !) 
Gay  were  her  minstrels  once,  for  free  her  throng. 
All  felt  the  common  joy  they  now  must  feign, 
Nor  ofl  I've  seen  such  siglit,  nor  heard  such  song, 
As  woo'd  the  eye,  and  thriU'd  the  Boephorus  along.^ 

LXXX. 

Loud  was  the  lightsome  tumult  on  the  shore, 
Oft  Music  changed,  but  never  ceased  her  tone. 
And  timely  echo'd  back  the  measured  oar. 
And  rippling  waters  made  a  pleasant  moan : 
The  Queen  of  tides  on  high  consenting  shone. 
And  when  a  transient  breeze  swept  o'er  the  wave, 
'Twas,  as  if  darting  from  her  heavenly  throne, 
A  brighter  glance  her  form  reflected  gave,       [lave. 
Till  sparkling  billows  seem'd  to  light  the  banks  they 

LXXXI. 

Glanced  many  a  light  caique  along  the  foam, 
Danced  on  the  shore  the  daughters  of  the  land, 
Ne  thought  had  man  or  maid  of  rest  or  home, 
While  many  a  languid  eye  and  thrilling  hand 
Exchanged  the  look  few  bosoms  may  withstand. 
Or  gently  preas'd,  retum'd  the  pressure  still : 
Oh  Love !  young  Love !  bound  in  thy  rosy  band. 
Let  sage  or  cynic  prattle  as  he  will, 
These  hours,  and  only  these,  redeem  Life's  years  of  ill ! 


ssa  covered  with  beautiful  boats  and  barges  darting  in  every 


direction  in  perfect  silence,  amid  sea-fowl,  who  sat  at  rest 
upon  the  waters,  altogether  c^mveyed  such  an  impression 
as  I  had  never  received,  and  probably  never  shall  aoain  re- 
ceive, from  the  view  of  any  other  place."    The  following 
sonnet,  by  the  same  author,  has  been  so  often  quoted,  that, 
but  for  its  exquisite  beauty,  we  should  not  have  ventured  tn 
reprint  it  here  :— 
"  A  glorious  form  thy  shining  city  wore, 
'Mid  cypress  thickets  of  perennial  green. 
With  minaret  and  golden  dome  between. 
While  thy  sea  softly  kisc'd  its  grassy  shore : 
Darting  across  whose  blue  expanse  was  seen 
Of  sculptured  barques  and  gtiileys  many  a  score . 
Whence  noise  was  none  save  that  of  plashing  oar 
Nor  word  was  spoke,  to  break  the  calm  sere..e. 
Unheard  is  whisler'd  boatmairs  hail  or  joke ; 

Who,  mute  as  Sinbad's  man  of  copper,  rows. 
And  only  intermits  the  sturdy  stroke, 
When  fearless  gull  too  nieh  his  pinnace  goes 

I,  hardly  conscious  if  I  oream'd  or  woke, 
liark'd  that  strange  piece  of  action  and  repose.**] 


I 


3» 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


LXXXII. 

Bnt»  midst  the  throng  in  merry  maaqoerade, 
Lark  there  no  hearts  that  thmb  with  secret  pain, 
E2ven  through  the  closest  seannent  half  betray'd? 
To  such  the  gentle  murmoFB  of  the  main 
Seem  to  re-echo  all  they  mourn  in  vain ; 
To  such  the  gladness  of  the  gamesome  crowd 
Is  source  of  wayword  thought  and  stem  disdain : 
How  do  they  loathe  the  laughter  idly  loud, 
And  long  to  change  the  robe  of  reyel  for  the  shiood ! 

LXXXIII. 

This  must  he  feel,  the  true-bom  son  of  Greece, 
If  Greece  one  true-bom  patriot  still  can  boast : 
Not  such  OS  prate  of  war,  but  skulk  in  peace, 
The  boudsman's  peace,  who  sighs  for  all  he  lost, 
Yet  with  smooth  smile  his  tyrant  can  accost. 
And  wield  the  slavish  sickle,  not  the  sword : 
Ah !  Greece !  they  love  theo  least  who  owe  thee  most ; 
Their  birth,  their  blood,  and  that  sublime  record 
Of  hero  sires,  who  shame  thy  now  degenerate  horde ! 

LXXXIV. 

When  riseth  LacedsBmon^s  hardihood. 
When  Thebes  Epaminondas  rears  again. 
When  Athens*  children  are  with  hearts  endued, 
When  Grecian  mothers  shall  give  birth  to  men. 
Then  mayst  thou  be  restored ;  but  not  till  then. 
A  thousand  yean  scarce  serve  to  form  a  state  ; 
An  hour  may  lay  it  in  the  dust ;  and  when 
Can  man  its  shattered  splendor  renovate. 
Recall  its  virtues  back,  and  vanquish  Time  and  Fate  7 

LXXXV. 

And  yet  how  lovely  in  thine  age  of  wo, 
Land  of  lost  gods  and  godlike  men !  art  thou ! 
Thy  vales  of  evergreen,  thy  hills  of  snow,* 
Proclaim  thee  Nature's  varied  favorite  now ; 
Thy  fanes,  thy  temples  to  thy  surface  bow. 
Commingling  slowly  with  heroic  earth, 
Broke  by  the  share  of  every  rustic  plough : 
So  perish  monuments  of  mortal  birth. 
So  perish  all  in  turn,  save  well-recorded  Worth ; 


1  On  ir^ny  of  the  mountains,  particularly  Liakura,  the 
snow  never  is  e  'irely  melted,  notwithstanding  the  intense 
heat  of  the  summer ;  but  I  never  saw  it  lie  on  ths  plains, 
even  in  winter. 

<  Of  Mount  Pentelicus,  from  whence  the  marble  was  dug 
that  constructed  the  public  edifices  of  Athens.  The  modem 
name  is  Mount  Menoeli.  An  immense  cave,  formed  by  the 
quarries,  still  remains,  and  will  till  the  end  of  time. 

>  In  all  Attica,  if  we  except  Athens  itself  and  Marathon, 
there  is  no  scene  more  interesting  than  Cape  Colonna.  To 
the  antiquary  and  artist,  sixteen  columns  are  an  inexhausti- 
ble source  of  observation  and  ?sign ;  to  the  philosopher, 
the  supposed  scene  of  some  oi  Plato^s  conversations  will 
not  be  unwelcome ;  and  the  traveller  will  be  struck  with 
the  beauty  of  the  prospect  over  "Isles  that  crown  the 
^gean  deep ;"  but,  for  an  Englishman,  Colonna  has  yet  an 
additional  mterest,  as  the  actual  spot  of  Falconer's  Ship- 
wreck. Pallas  and  Plato  are  forgotten,  in  the  recollection 
of  Falconer  and  Campbell  :— 

''  Here  in  the  dead  of  night  by  Lonna's  steep. 
The  seaman's  cry  was  neara  along  the  deep.*' 
This  temple  of  Minerva  may  be  seen  at  sea  from  a  great 
distance.  In  two  journeys  which  I  made,  and  one  voyage  to 
Cane  Colonna,  the  view  from  either  side,  by  land,  was  less 
sinking  than  the  approach  from  the  isles.  In  our  second 
land  excursion,  we  nad  a  narrow  escape  from  a  party  of 
Mainotes.  concealed  in  the  caverns  beneath.  We  were  told 
afterwaras,by  one  of  their  prisoners,  subseouentlicriuisomed, 
that  they  were  deterred  from  atucking  us  by  the  Sippearance 
of  my  two  Albanians :  conjecturing  very  sagaciously,  but 
fiuse^r,  that  we  bad  a  complete  guard  of  these  Arnaouts  at 


LXXXVI. 

Save  where  some  solitary  column  monms 
Above  its  prostrate  brethren  of  the  cave  f 
Save  where  Tritonia's  air)'  shrine  adorns 
Colonna's  cliff,*  and  gleams  abng  the  wave ; 
Save  o'er  some  warrior's  half-forgotten  grave, 
Where  the  gray  stones  and  unmolested  grass 
Ages,  but  not  oblivion,  feebly  brave. 
While  strangers  only  not  regardless  pass, 
lingering  like  me,  perdiance,  to  gaze,  and  sigh  **  Alas  !** 

LXXXVII. 

Tet  are  thy  skies  as  blue,  thy  crags  as  wild ; 
Sweet  are  thy  groves,  and  verdant  are  thy  fields, 
Thine  olive  ripe  as  when  Minerva  smiled. 
And  still  his  honey'd  wealth  Hymettus  yields ; 
There  the  blithe  bee  his  fragrant  fbrtreas  builds, 
The  froebom  wanderer  of  thy  mountain-air ; 
Apollo  still  thy  long,  long  summer  gilds, 
Still  in  his  beam  Mendeli's  marbles  glare ; 
Art,  Glory,  Freedom  fail,  but  Nature  still  is  fair.^ 

LXXXVIIL 

Where'er  we  tread  *tis  haunted,  holy  ground ; 
No  earth  of  thine  is  lost  in  vulgar  mould. 
But  one  vast  realm  of  wonder  spreads  around. 
And  all  the  Muse's  tales  seem  truly  told. 
Till  the  sense  aches  with  gazinff  to  behold 
The  scenes  our  earliest  dreams  have  dwelt  upon : 
Each  hill  and  dale,  each  deepening  glen  and  wold 
Defies  the  power  which  crush'd  thy  temples  gone : 
Age  shakes  Athena's  tower,  but  spares  gray  Marathon. 

LXXXIX. 

The  sun,  the  soil,  but  not  the  slave,  the  same ; 
Unchanged  m  all  except  its  foreign  lord — 
Preserves  alike  its  bounds  and  boundless  fame 
The  Battle-field,  where  Persia's  victim  horde 
First  bow'd  beneath  the  brunt  of  Hellas'  swoM, 
As  on  the  mom  to  distant  Glory  dear. 
When  Marathon  became  a  magic  word  f 
Which  utter'd,  to  the  hearer's  eye  appear 
The  camp,  the  host,  the  fight,  the  conqueror's  career. 


hand,  they  remained  stationary,  and  thus  saved  our  party, 
which  was  too  small  to  have  opposed  any  efiectual  resist- 
ance. Colonna  is  no  less  a  resort  of  painters  than  of  pirates ; 
there 

<*  The  hireling  artist  plants  his  paltry  desk, 
And  makes  degraded  nature  picturesque." 

(See  Hodgson's  Lady  Jane  Grey,  Ifcc.) 

But  there  Nature,  with  the  aid  of  Art,  has  done  that  for  her- 
self. I  was  fortunate  enough  to  engage  a  very  superior 
German  artist ;  and  hope  to  renew  my  acquaintance  with 
this  and  many  other  Levantine  scenes,  by  the  arrival  of  his 
performances. 
*  [The  following  passage  in  Harris's  Philosophical  In- 

auiries,  contains  the  pith  of  this  stanza :— **  Notwithstandinff 
tie  various  fortimes  of  Athens  as  a  city,  Attica  is  stiU 
£unous  for  olives,  and  Mount  Hymettus  for  honey.  Human 
institutions  perish,  bnt  Nature  is  permanent."  I  recollect 
having  once  pointed  out  this  coincidence  to  Lord  Byron, 
but  he  assured  me  that  he  had  never  even  seen  this  work 
of  Harris's.— MooRE.] 

A  "  Siste  Viator— beroa  calcas !"  was  the  epitkph  on  the 
famous  Count  Merci ;— what  then  must  be  our  feelmas  when 
standing  on  the  tumulus  of  the  two  hundred  (Greeks)  who 
fell  on  Marathon  t  The  principal  barrow  has  recently  been 
opened  by  Fauvel:  few  or  no  relics,  as  vases,  fcc.  were 
found  by  the  excavator.  The  plain  of  Marathon  was  offer 
ed  to  me  for  sale  at  the  sum  of  sixteen  thousand  piastres, 
about  nine  hundred  pounds !  Alas !— "  Expende-^ouot  Ubra* 
in  duce  summo— inveaies !"— was  the  dust  of  MUtiades  worth 
no  more!  It  could  scarcely  have  fetched  less  if  sold  by 
weight. 


Canto  n. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


37 


XC. 

Hie  fl3^iiif  Mede,  his  flhafUcas  bn^en  bow  | 
The  fiery  Greek,  his  red  panoing  spear ; 
Moontaiui  abo^e.  Earth's,  Ocean's  plain  below ; 
Death  in  the  front.  Destruction  in  the  rear ! 
Soch  was  the  scene — ^what  now  remaineth  here  7 
What  sacred  trophy  mariu  the  hallow'd  ground, 
Recording  Freedom's  smile  and  Asia's  tear? 
The  rifled  um,  the  violated  moond,  [around. 

Tlie  dust  thy  courser's  hoof,  rude  stranger!  spurns 

XCL 

Tet  to  the  remnants  of  thy  splendor  past 
Shall  pilgrims,  pensive,  but  unwearied,  throng ; 
Long  shall  the  voyager,  with  th'  Ionian  blast. 
Hail  the  bright  clune  of  battle  and  of  song ; 
Long  shall  wine  annals  and  immortal  tongue 
Fill  with  thy  lame  the  youth  of  many  a  £ore ; 
Boast  of  the  aged  I  lesson  of  the  young ! 
Which  sages  venerate  and  bards  adore. 
As  Pallas  and  the  Muse  unveil  their  awful  lore. 

XCII. 

Hie  parted  bosom  clings  to  wonted  home, 
If  aught  that's  kindred  cheer  the  welcome  hearth ; 
He  that  is  lonely,  hither  let  him  roam, 
And  gaze  complacent  on  congenial  earth. 
Greece  is  no  lightsome  land  of  social  mirth  ; 
But  he  whom  Sadness  sootheth  may  abide. 
And  scarce  regret  the  region  of  his  birth, 
When  wandering  slow  by  Delphi's  sacred  side, 
Or  gazing  o'er  the  plains  where  Greek  and  Persian 
died.* 

xcm. 

Let  such  approach  this  consecrated  land, 
And  pan  in  peace  along  the  ma^c  waste : 
Bat  spare  its  relics — let  no  busy  hand 
De&ce  the  scenes,  already  how  defaced ! 
Not  for  such  purpose  were  these  altars  placed : 
Revere  tlie  remnants  nations  once  revered : 
So  may  our  country's  name  be  undisgraced, 
So  mayvt  thou  prosper  where  thy  youth  was  rear'd. 
By  every  honest  joy  of  love  and  life  endear'd ! 

'  XCIV. 

For  thee,  who  thus  iq  too  protracted  song 
Hast  sooth'd  thine  idlesse  with  inglorious  lays, 
Soon  shall  thy  voice  be  lost  amid  the  throng 
Of  louder  minstrels  in  these  later  days : 
T   <qich  resign  the  strife  for  fading  bays — 


1  rrte  original  MS.  closes  with  this  stanza.  The  rest  was 
added  while  the  canto  was  passing  through  the  press.] 

*  [This  stanza  was  written  October  11, 1811 ;  upon  which 
day  the  poet,  in  a  letter  to  a  friend,  says—"  I  nave  been 
sgam  shocked  with  a  death,  and  have  lost  one  very  dear  to 
me  in  happier  times :  but  '  I  have  ahn  *st  forgot  the  taste 
of  rnef,'  and  '  supped  full  of  horrors,'  tiJ  I  have  become 
callous:  nor  hare  I  a  tear  left  for  an  event  which,  five 
yean  ago,  wtmld  have  twwed  down  my  head  to  the  earth. 
It  seems  as  though  I  were  to  experience  in  my  youth  the 
greatest  misery  of  age.  My  friends  fall  around  me,  and  I 
Mall  be  left  a  lonely  tree  before  I  am  withered.    Other 


HI  may  such  contest  now  the  spirit  move 
Which  heeds  nor  keen  reproach  nor  partial  praise  ; 
Smce  cold  each  kinder  heart  that  might  approve. 
And  none  are  left  to  please  when  none  are  left  to  love. 

xcv. 

Thou  too  art  gone,  thou  loved  and  lovely  one ! 
Whom  youth  and  youth's  affections  bound  to  me , 
Who  did  for  me  what  none  beside  have  done, 
Nor  shrank  from  one  albeit  unworthy  thee. 
What  is  my  being?  thou  hast  ceased  to  be  ! 
Nor  stay'd  to  welcome  here  thy  wanderer  home, 
Who  mourns  o'er  hours  which  we  no  more  shall 


Would  they  had  never  been,  or  were  to  come ! 
Would  he  had  ne'er  retum'd  to  find  fresh  cause  to 


XCVL 

Oh !  ever  loving,  lovely,  and  beloved ! 

How  selfish  Sorrow  ponders  on  the  past. 

And  clings  to  thoughts  now  better  for  removed ! 

But  Tune  shall  tear  thy  shadow  from  me  last 

All  thou  couldst  have  of  mine,  stem  Death !  thou 

hast; 
The  parent,  friend,  and  now  the  more  than  friend : 
Ne'er  yet  for  one  thine  arrows  flew  so  fast, 
And  grief  with  grief  continuing  still  to  blend. 
Hath  snatch'd  the  little  joy  that  ufe  had  yet  to  lend. 

XCVII. 

Then  must  I  plunge  again  into  the  crowd. 
And  follow  all  that  Peace  disdains  to  seek  ? 
Where  Revel  calls,  and  Laughter,  vainly  loud, 
False  to  the  heart,  distorts  the  hollow  cheek. 
To  leave  the  flagging  spirit  doubly  weak ; 
Still  o'er  the  features,  which  perforce  they  cheer, 
To  feign  the  pleasure  or  conceal  the  pique  ; 
Smiles  form  the  channel  of  a  future  tear, 
Or  raise  the  writhmg  lip  with  ill-dissembled  sneer. 

XCVIII. 

What  is  the  worst  of  woes  that  wait  on  age  7 
What  stamps  the  wrinkle  deeper  on  the  brow? 
To  view  each  loved  one  blotted  from  life's  page. 
And  be  alone  on  earth,  as  I  am  now.' 
Before  the  Chastener  hum^'y  let  be  bow, 
O'er  hearts  divided  and  o'er  hopes  destroy'd : 
Roll  on,  vam  days !  full  reckless  may  ye  flow, 
Since  "Time  hath  reft  whate'er  my  soul  enjoy'd. 
And  with  the  ills  of  Eld  mine  eariier  years  iJloy'd. 


men  can  always  take  refuge  in  their  families :  I  have  no 
resource  but  my  own  reflections,  and  they  present  no  pros- 
pect here  or  hereafter,  except  the  selfish  satisfaction  of 
survivmg  my  friends.    I  am  indeed  very  wretched,  and  vou 


Literature,  ^*  Lord  Byron  caimot  have  experienced  such 
keen  anguish  as  these  exquisite  allusions  to  what  older 
men  may  have  felt  seem  to  denote.**— •♦  I  fear  he  has," 
answereu  Matthias ;— **  he  could  not  otherwise  have  wr  t- 
ten  such  a  poem.**] 


38 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  hi. 


CHILDE   HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


•'  Afin  que  cette  application  vous  forf&t  de  penser  k  autre 
cliose ;  il  n'y  a  en  v6nt*  de  remdde  que  celui-la  et  le  temps.** 
—Lettre  du  Rot  de  Pnuse  i  D'AUmberty  Sept.  7,  1776. 


CANTO  THB   THIED. 


I. 

Is  thy  face  like  thy  motherV,  my  fair  child ! 
Ada  !*  sole  daughter  of  my  house  and  heart  ? 
When  last  I  saw  thv  young  blue  eyes  they  smiled, 
Aud  then  we  parted, — ^not  as  now  we  part, 
But  with  a  hope. — 

Awakmg  with  a  start, 
The  waters  heave  around  me ;  and  on  high 
The  winds  lift  up  their  voices :  I  depart, 
Whither  I  know  not ;'  but  the  hour's  gone  by, 
When  Albion's  lessening  shores  could  grieve  or  glad 
mine  eye.' 

IL 

Once  more  upon  the  waters  I  yet  once  more ! 
And  the  waves  bound  beneath  me  as  a  steed 
That  knows  his  rider.*     Welcome  to  their  roar  I 
Swift  be  their  guidance,  whereso'er  it  lead ! 
Though  the  straui'd  mast  should  quiver  as  a  reed, 
And  the  rent  canvass  fluttering  strew  the  gale,* 
Still  must  I  on  ;  for  I  am  as  a  weed, 
Flung  from  the  rock,  on  Ocean's  foam,  to  sail 

Where'er  the  surge  may  sweep,  the  tempest's  breath 
prevail. 

III. 
In  my  youth's  summer  I  did  sing  of  One, 
The  wandering  outlaw  of  his  own  dark  mind  ; 
Again     "v^ize  the  theme,  then  but  begun. 
And  bear  it  with  me,  as  the  rushing  wind 
Bears  the  cloud  onwards :  in  that  Tale  I  find 
The  furrows  of  long  thought,  aud  dried-up  tears. 
Which,  ebbing,  leave  a  sterile  track  behind, 
O'er  which  all  heavily  the  journeying  years 

Plod  the  last  sands  of  life, — where  not  a  flower  appears. 

IV. 

Since  my  young  days  of  passion^oy,  or  pam. 
Perchance  my  heart  aud  harp  have  lost  a  string, 
Ar  i  both  may  jar :  it  may  be,  that  in  vain 
I  V  Juld  essay  as  I  have  sung  to  sing. 


» fir  a  hitherto  unpublished  letter,  dated  Verona,  Novem- 
ber 6  1816,  Lord  Byron  says— "By  the  way,  Ada'e  name 
(Which  I  found  m  our  pedigree,  under  king  John's  reign)  is 
the  same  with  that  of  the  sister  of  Charlemagne,  as  1 
reddc,  the  other  day,  in  a  book  treating  of  the  Rhrne.**] 

-  (Lord  Byron  quitted  England,  for  the  second  and  last 
time,  on  the  25th  of  April,  1816,  attended  by  Wilhain  Fletcher 
and  Robert  Rushton,  the  "  yeoman"  and  •*  page"  of  Cunto  I. ; 
his  physician,  Dr.  Polidon  ;  and  a  Swiss  valet.J 

1 1 '« could  grieve  or  glad  my  gazing  eye."— M&  1 

*  fin  the   "  Two  Noble   Kinsmen"  of  Beaumont   and 
Fletcher,  we  find  the  following  passage  :— 
♦'  Oh,  never 
Shall  we  two  exercise,  like  twins  of  Honor, 
Uur  arms  again,  tuid/eel  ourjier^  hortet 
Like  proud  »ea$  under  us.** 

Out  of  this  somewhat  forced  simile,  by  a  judicious  transpo- 
sition of  the  comparison,  and  by  the  substitution  of  the 
more  definite  word  "waves"  for  "seas,"  Lord  Byron's 
clear  and  noble  thought  has  been  produced.— Moore.] 
» C"  And  the  rent  canvass  tattering."— MS.] 


Yet,  though  a  dreary  strain,  to  this  I  cling, 
So  that  it  wean  me  from  the  weary  dream 
Of  selfish  grief  or  gladness — so  it  ^ng 
Forgetfulness  around  me — it  shall  seem 
To  me,  though  to  none  else,  a  not  ungrateful  theme 


He,  who  grown  aged  in  this  world  of  wo, 
In  deeds,  not  years,  piercing  th«  depths  of  life. 
So  that  no  wonder  waits  him ;  nor  below 
Can  love,  or  sorrow,  fame,  ambition,  strife, 
Cut  to  his  heart  again  with  the  keen  knifn 
Of  silent,  sharp  endurance :  he  can  tell 
Why  thought  seeks  refuge  in  lone  caves,  yet  rife 
With  airy  images,  and  shapes  which  dwell 
Still  ununpair'd,  tnougfa  old,  in  the  soul's  haimted  cell 

VI. 

Tis  to  create,  and  in  creating  live 
A  being  more  intense,  that  we  endow 
With  form  our  fancy,  gaining  as  we  give 
The  life  we  image,  even  as  I  do  now. 
What  am  I  ?     Nothing :  but  not  so  art  thou, 
Sold  of  my  thought !  with  whom  I  traverse  earth, 
Invisible  but  gazing,  as  I  glow 
Miz'd  with  thy  spirit,  blended  with  thy  birth, 
And  feeling  still  with   thee  in  my  crushed   feelings* 
dearth. 

VII. 

Yet  roust  I  thmk  leas  wildly . — I  have  thought 
Too  long  and  darkly,  till  my  brain  became, 
In  its  own  eddy  boiling  and  overwrought, 
A  whirling  gulf  of  phantasy  and  flame  : 
And  thus,  untaught  m  youth  my  heart  to  tame. 
My  springs  of  life  were  poisou'd.     'Tis  too  late  ! 
Yet  am  I  changed  ;  though  still  enough  the  same 
In  strength  to  l^ar  what  time  cannot  abate, 
And  feed  on  bitter  fruits  without  accusing  Fate. 

VIII. 

Something  too  much  of  this : — but  now  'tis  past. 
And  the  spell  closes  with  its  silent  seal. 
Long  absent  Harold  reappears  at  last ; 
He  of  the  breast  which  fain  no  more  wotid  feel. 
Wrung  with  the  wounds  which  kill  not,  but  iie'ei 
Yet  Time,  who  changes  all,  had  altered  him  [heal ; 
In  soul  and  aspect  as  in  age  •*  years  steal 
Fu:e  from  the  mind  as  vigor  from  the  lunb ; 
And  life's  enchanted  cup  but  q)ackle8  near  the  brim. 


«  [The  first  and  second  cantos  of  *'  Childe  Harold's  Pil- 
grimage" produced,  on  their  appearance  in  1812,  an  efiect 
upon  the  public,  at  least  eoual  to  any  work  which  has  ap- 
peared within  this  or  the  la^,  century,  and  placed  at  once 
upon  Lord  Byron's  head  the  garland  for  whiT'n  other  men  of 

fenius  have  toiled  long,  and  which  they  L  t  gained  late, 
[e  was  placed  pre-enunent  among  the  literary  men  of  his 
country  by  general  acclamation.  It  was  amidst  such  feelings 
of  sidini ration  that  he  entered  the  public  stage.  Everything 
in  his  maimer,  person,  and  conversation,  tended  to  maintain 
the  charm  which  his  genius  had  flung  around  him :  and  those 
admitted  to  lis  conversation,far  from  findmg  that  the  inspired 
poet  sunk  into  ordinary  mortality,  felt  themselves  attached 
to  him,  not  only  by  many  noble  qualities,  but  by  the  inlerest 
of  a  inyst«rious,  undefined,  and  almost  painful  curiosity.  A 
countenance  exquisitely  modelled  to  the  expression  of  fecl- 
mg  and  passion,  and  exhibiting  the  remarkable  contrast  of 
very  dark  hair  and  eyebrows  with  light  and  exprcisi'e  eyes, 
presented  to  the  physiognomist  the  most  mterestmg  subject 
for  the  exercise  of  his  art  The  predominating  expression  was 
that  of  deep  ard  habitual  thought,  which  gave  way  to  the 
most  rapid  pmy  of  features  when  he  eng;i«ed  in  interesting 
discussion  ;  so    lat  a  brother  poet  compared  them  to  tiM 


I 


J 


Uanfo  hi. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


IX. 

His  had  been  quaffed  too  quickly,  and  he  found 
The  dregs  were  wofmwoqd ;  but  he  fiU'd  agaiu, 
And  firom  a  purer  fount,  on  holier  ground, 
And  deem'd  its  spring  perpetual ;  but  in  vaui . 
Still  round  hinc  clung  inyisibly  a  chain 
Which  gallM  fotever,  fettering  though  unseen. 
And  heavy  though  it  clank'd  not ;  worn  with  pam. 
Which  pined  although  it  spoke  not,  and  grew  keen, 

EZnteiing  with  every  step  he  took  throu^  many  a 
scene. 

X. 
Secure  in  guarded  coldness,  he  had  mix^d 
Again  in  fancied  safety  with  his  kind, 
And  deem*d  his  spirit  now  so  firmly  fix*d 
And  sheath'd  with  an  invulnerable  mind, 
That,  if  no  joy,  no  sorrow  Iurk*d  behind ; 
And  he,  as  one,  might  midst  the  many  stand 
Unheeded,  searching  through  the  crowd  to  find 
Fit  speculation ;  such  as  in  strange  land 

He  found  in  wonder-works  of  Grod  and  Nature's  hand. 

XL 

But  who  can  view  the  ripeu'd  rose,  nor  seek 
To  wear  it  ?  who  can  curiously  behold 
The  smoothness  and  the  sheen  of  beauty's  cheek, 
Nor  feel  the  heart  can  never  all  grow  old  ? 
Who  can  contemplate  Fame  through  clouds  unfold 
The  star  which  rises  o'er  her  steep,  nor  climb? 
Harold,  once  more  within  the  vortex,  roll'd 
On  with  the  giddy  circle,  chasing  Time, 
Yet  with  a  nobler  aim  than  in  his  youth's  fond  prime. 

XII. 
But  soon  he  knew  himself  the  most  unfit 
Of  men  to  herd  with  Man ;  with  whom  he  held 
Little  in  common ;  untau^t  to  submit 
His  thoughts  to  others,  thougli  his  soul  was  quell'd 
In  youth  by  his  own  thoughts ;  still  uncompell'd. 
He  would  not  yield  dominion  of  his  mind 
To  spirits  against  whom  his  own  robelPd  ; 
Proud  though  in  desolation ;  which  could  find 
A  life  within  itself,  to  breathe  without  mankind. 

XIIL 
Where  rose  the  mountams,  there   to  him  were 

friends; 
Where  ruU'd  the  ocean,  thereon  was  his  home ; 
Where  a  blue  sky,  and  glowing  clime,  extends, 
He  had  the  passion  and  the  power  to  roam ; 


•Cilptore  of  a  beautiful  alabaster  vase,  only  seen  to  perfec- 
tioa  wbcn  lighted  up  froin  within.  The  flashes  of  mirth, 
gajroty,  indignaiici,  or  satirical  dislike,  which  frequently 
anunated  Lord  Byron's  countenance,  might,  during  an  eve- 
ning's conversation,  be  mistaken,  by  a  stranger,  for  the 
hatntual  expression,  so  easily  and  so  happily  was  it  formed 
for  them  all :  but  those  who  had  an  opportunity  of  studying 
his  features  for  a  length  of  time,  and  upon  various  occasions, 
both  of  rest  and  emotion,  will  agree  that  their  proper  lan- 
pxLge  was  that  of  melancholy.  Sometimes  shades  of  this 
gloom  mterrupted  even  his  gayest  and  most  happy  mo- 
oieDte.— Sib  Walter  Scott.^ 

1  (In  the  third  canto  of  Childc  Harold  Uiere  is  much  in- 
equahty.  The  thoughts  and  images  are  sometimes  labored ; 
but  still  they  are  a  very  great  improvement  upon  the  first 
two  cantos.  Lord  Byron  here  speaks  in  his  own  language 
SDd  character,  not  in  the  tone  ol  others ;— he  is  describing, 
I  not  mventmg :  therefore  he  has  not,  and  cannot  have,  the 
freedom  with  which  fiction  is  composed.  Sometimes  be 
bas  a  conciseness  which  is  very  powerful,  but  almost  abrupt. 
From  trusting  himself  alone,  and  working  out  his  own 
^leep-buhed  thoughts,  he  now,  perhaps,  fell  into  a  habit  of 
laboring,  even  where  there  was  no  occasion  to  labor.  In 
the  first  sixteen  stanzas  there  is  yet  a  mighty  but  groaning 


The  desert,  forest,  cavern,  breaker's  foam. 
Were  unto  him  companionship ;  they  spake 
A  mutual  language,  clearer  than  the  tome 
Of  his  land's  tongue,  which  he  would  oft  forsake 
For  Nature's  pages  glass'd  by  sunbeams  on  the  lake. 

XIV. 

Like  the  Chaldean,  he  could  watch  the  stars. 
Till  he  had  peopled  them  with  beings  bright 
As  their  own  beams  ;  and  earth,  aud  earth-bom  jars. 
And  human  frailties,  were  forgotten  quite : 
Could  he  have  kept  his  q)irit  to  tliat  fiight 
He  had  been  happy ;  but  this  clay  will  smk 
Its  spark  immortal,  envying  it  the  light 
To  which  it  mounts,  as  if  to  break  the  link 
That  keeps  us  from  yon  heaven  which  woos  us  to  its 
brink. 

XV. 

But  in  Man's  dwellings  he  bec&n,e  a  thing 
Restless  and  worn,  and  stem  and  wearisome, 
Droop'd  as  a  wild-bom  falcon  with  clipp'd  wing. 
To  whom  the  boundless  air  alone  were  home : 
Then  came  his  fit  again,  which  to  o'ercome. 
As  eagerly  the  barr'd-up  bird  will  beat 
His  breast  and  beak  against  his  wiry  dome 
Till  the  blood  tinge  his  plumage,  so  the  heat 
Of  his  impeded  soul  would  through  his  bosom  eat 

XVI. 

Self-exiled  Harold*  wanders  forth  again. 
With  naught  of  hope  left,  but  with  less  of  gloom ; 
The  very  knowledge  that  he  lived  in  vain. 
That  all  was  over  on  this  side  the  tomb. 
Had  made  Despair  a  smlliugness  assume,      [wreck 
Which,  though  'twere  wild, — as  on  the  plunder'd 
When  mariueiB  would  madly  meet  their  doom 
With  draughts  intemperate  on  the  sinking  deck, — 
Did  yet  inspire  a  cheer,  which  he  forebore  to  check.* 

XVIL 

Stop ! — ^for  thv  tread  is  on  an  Empire's  dust ! 
An  Earthquake's  spoil  is  sepulchred  below ! 
Is  the  spot  inark'd  with  no  colossal  bust? 
Nor  column  trophicd  for  triumphal  sliow? 
None ;  but  the  moral's  tmth  tells  simpler  so, 
As  the  ground  was  before,  thus  let  it  be  ; — 
How  that  red  rain  hath  made  the  harvest  grow ! 
And  is  this  all  the  world  has  gain'd  by  thee, 
Thou  first  and  last  of  fields !  king-making  Victory  ? 


burst  of  dark  and  appalling  strength.  It  was  unquestionably 
the  Qnexaggeratecl  picture  of  a  most  tempestuous  and  som- 
bre, but  magnificent  soul !— Brtdoes.] 

9  [These  stanzas,— in  which  the  author,  adopting  more  dis- 
tinctly the  chai  acter  of  Childe  Harold  than  m  the  original 
poem,  assigTis  the  cause  why  he  has  resumed  his  Pilgrim's 
stafl^,  ^hen  it  was  hoped  he  had  sat  down  for  life  a  denizen  of 
his  native  country,— abound  with  much  moral  interest  and 
poetical  beauty.  The  commentary  throufi;h  which  the  mean- 
mg  of  this  melancholy  tale  is  rendered  obvious,  is  still  in  vivid 
remembrance ;  for  the  errors  of  those  who  excel  their  fellows 
in  gifts  and  accomplishments  are  not  soon  forgotten.  Those 
scenes,  ever  most  painful  to  the  bosom,  were  rendered  yet 
more  so  by  public  discussion ;  and  it  is  at  least  possible  tnat 
amongst  Uiose  who  exclaimed  most  loudly  on  this  unhappy 
occasion,  were  some  in  whose  eyes  literary  superiority  exag- 
gerated Lord  Byron's  offence.  The  scene  may  be  described 
m  a  few  words :— the  wise  condemned— the  good  regretted 
—the  multitude,  idly  or  maliciously  inquisitive,  rushed  from 
place  to  place,  gatnering  gossip,  which  they  mangled  and 
exaggerated  wnne  they  repeated  it ;  and  impudence,  ever 
ready  to  hitch  itself  into  notoriety,  hooked  on,  as  Falstaff  en- 
joins Bardolph,  blustered,  bullied,  and  talked  of  '*  pleading 
a  cause,"  and  "  taking  a  side.*'— Sia  Walter  Scott.] 


40 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  vl 


XVIIL 

Aud  Harold  stands  upon  this  place  of  skulls, 
The  grave  of  France,  the  deadly  Waterloo  I 
How  in  an  hour  the  power  which  gave  annuls 
Its  giftu,  transferrin?  fame  as  fleeting  too ! 
In  "  pride  of  place"*  here  last  the  eagle  flew, 
Then  tore  with  bloody  talon  the  rent  plam,* 
Pierced  by  the  shaft  of  banded  nations  through ; 
Ambition  8  life  and  labors  all  were  vain ;       [chain. 
He  wears  the  shatter'd  links  of  the  world's  broken 

XIX. 

Fit  retribution !  Gaul  may  champ  the  bit 
And  foam  in  fetters ; — ^but  is  Earth  more  free  7 
Did  nations  combat  to  make  One  submit ; 
Or  league  to  teach  all  kings  true  sovereignty? 
What !  shall  reviving  Thraldom  again  be 
The  patch'd-up  idol  of  enlighten*d  days? 
Shall  we,  who  struck  the  Lion  down,  shall  we 
Pay  the  Wolf  homage  ?  proff*ering  lowly  gaze 
And  servile  knees  to  thrones  ?    No  ;  prove  before  ye 
praise! 

XX. 

If  not,  o'er  one  fallen  despot  boast  no  more ! 
In  vain  fair  cheeks  were  funrow'd  with  hot  tears 
For  Europe's  flowers  long  rooted  up  before 
The  trampler  of  her  vineyards ;  in  vain  years 
Of  death,  depopulation,  lK>ndago,  fears. 
Have  all  been  borne,  and  broken  by  the  accord 
Of  roused-up  millions:  all  that  most  endears 
Glory,  is  when  the  myrtle  wreathes  a  sword 
Such  as  Harmodius*  drew  on  Athens'  tyrant  lord. 

XXL 

There  wds  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night,* 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gathered  then 
Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily ;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell. 
Soft  eyes  look'd  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again. 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell  f      [knell ! 
But  hush !  hark !  a  deep  sound  s^es  Uke  a  rising 


1 "  Pride  of  place**  is  a  term  of  falconry,  and  means  the 
highest  pitch  of  flight    See  Macbeth,  fro. 

"  An  eagle  towering  in  his  pride  of  place,"  Ifcc. 

9  [In  the  original  draught  of  this  stanza,  (which,  as  well 
OS  the  preceding  one,  was  written  after  a  visit  to  the  field 
of  Waterloo,)  the  lines  stood— 

"  Here  his  last  flight  the  haughty  eagle  flew, 
Then  tore  with  bloody  beak  the  fatal  plain." 

On  seeing  these  lines,  Mr.  Reinagle  sketched  a  spirited 
chained  eagle,  grasping  the  earth  with  his  talonf.  The  cir- 
cumstance being  mentioned  to  Lord  Byron,  he  wrote  thus 
to  a  friend  at  Brussels,—"  Reinagle  is  a  better  poet  and  a 
better  omitholo^;ist  than  I  am :  eagles,  and  all  birds  of  prey, 
attack  with  their  talons,  and  not  with  their  beaks ;  and  I 
have  altered  the  line  thus  :— 

'  Then  tore  with  bloody  talon  the  rent  plain.* 

This  is,  I  think,  a  better  line,  besides  its  poetical  justice.**] 
»  See  the  famous  song  on  Hannodius  and  Aristogiton. 
The  best  English  translation  is  in  Bland's  Anthology,  by 
Mr.  (now  Lord  Chief  Justice)  Denman,— 

"  With  myrtle  my  sword  will  I  wreathe,**  Jtc. 

*  [There  can  be  no  more  remarkable  proof  of  the  greatness 
of  Lord  Bjrron's  genius,  than  the  spirit  and  interest  he  has 
contrived  to  communicate  to  his  picture  of  the  often-drawn 
and  diflicult  scene  of  the  breaking  up  from  Brussels  before 
the  great  Battle.  It  is  a  trite  remark,  that  poets  generally 
fail  m  the  representation  of  great  events,  where  the  interest 


L 


XXII. 

Did  ye  not  hear  it? — ^No ;  'twas  but  the  wind, 
Or  the  car  rattlii^  o'er  the  stony  street ; 
On  with  the  dance !  let  joy  be  unconflned ; 
No  sleep  till  mom,  when  Youth  and  Pleasure  m^st 
To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying  feet— 
But,  hark ! — that  heavy  sound  breaks  m  once  more, 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat ; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before ! 
Arm !  arm !  it  is — it  is — the  cannon's  opening  roar ! 

XXIII. 

Within  a  window'd  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain ;  he  did  hear 
That  sotmd  the  first  amidst  the  festival. 
And  caught  its  tone  with  Death's  prophetic  ear ; 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deem'd  it  near, 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which  stretch'd  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier,* 
And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could  quell : 
He  rush'd  mto  the  field,  aud,  foremost  fighting,  fell.* 

XXIV. 
Ah !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fh>. 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  tdl  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blush'd  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliuess ; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated ;  who  could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes, 
Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  mom  coidd  rise ! 

XXV. 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste :  the  steed. 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car. 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed. 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war ; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar ; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alamiiug  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star ; 
While  throng'd  the  citizens  with  terror  dmnb, 
Or  whispering,  with  white  lips — **  The  foe  I    They 
come  I  they  come !" 


is  recent,  and  the  particulars  are  consequently  clearly  and 
commonly  known.  It  required  some  courage  to  venture  on 
a  theme  beset  with  so  many  dangers,  and"^  deformed  with 
the  wrecks  of  so  many  former  adventures.  See,  however, 
with  what  easy  strength  he  enters  upon  it,  and  with  how 
much  grace  he  gradually  finds  his  way  back  to  his  own 
peculiar  vein  of  sentiment  and  diction !— Jbffbbt.] 

•  On  the  night  previous  to  the  action,  it  is  said  that  a  ball 
was  given  at  Brussels.— [The  popular  error  of  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  having  been  surprxsedy  on  the  eve  of  the  battle 
of  Waterloo,  at  a  ball  given  by  the  Duchess  of  Richmond 
at  Brussels,  was  first  corrected  on  authority,  in  the  History 
of  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  which  forms  a  portion  of  tlie 
"  Family  Library.*'  The  Duke  had  received  intelligence  of 
Napoleon's  decisive  operations,  and  it  was  intended  to  put 
off  the  ball ;  but,  on  reflection,  it  seemed  highly  important 
that  the  people  of  Brussels  should  be  kept  in  ignorance  as 
to  the  course  of  events,  and  the  Duke  not  only  desired  that 
the  ball  should  proceed,  but  the  general  ofDcers  received 
his  commands  to  appear  at  it— each  takine  care  to  quit  the 
apartment  as  quietly  as  possible  at  ten  o'clock,  and  proceed 
to  Join  his  respective  division  en  route,] 

•  [The  father  of  the  Duke  of  Brunswick,  who  fell  at 
Quatre  Bras,  received  his  death- wound  at  Jena.] 

f  [This  stanza  is  very  grand,  even  from  its  total  unadom- 
ment.  It  is  only  a  versification  of  the  common  narratives : 
but  here  may  well  be  applied  a  position  of  Johnson,  that 
"  where  trutn  is  suflScient  to  fill  the  mind,  fiction  is  worM 
than  useless.*'— Brydoes.] 


Cahto  ni. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


41 


XXVL 

And  wild  and  hi|h  the  <<  Cameron's  rtihenof^  rose ! 
Vie  war-note  of  Lochiel.  which  Aloyn's  hiliB 
Have  heard,  and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon  foes : — 
Hew  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  thriUa, 
SaTage  and  shrill !  But  with  the  breath  whicli  fiUa 
Their  monntain-pipe,  so  fill  the  mountaineers 
With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  mstils 
Tlie  stirringmemory  of  a  thousand  years,      jears ! 
And  Evan's,  DoBakFs*  fome  rings  in  each  clanuian's 

xxvn. 

And  Ardennes'  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves, 
Dewy  with  nature's  tear-drops,  as  tliey  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves. 
Over  the  unretuming  brave, — alas ! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verduro,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valor,  rolling  on  the  foe,  [low. 

And  btuning  witii  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold  and 

XXVIII. 
List  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 
Lsst  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay, 
Tlie  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of  strife, 
The  mom  the  marshalliug  in  arms, — the  day 
Battle's  magnificently-stern  array ! 
Tlie  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when  nnt 
Tlie  earth  is  cover'd  thick  with  other  clay. 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  beap'd  and  pent, 
Bider  and  horse, — ^friend,  foe, — in  one    red    burial 
blent!* 

XXIX. 

Tlieir  praise  is  hymn'd  by  loftier  harps  than  mine ; 
Yet  one  I  would  select  from  that  proud  throng 
Partly  because  they  blend  me  with  his  line. 
And  partly  that  I  did  his  siro  some  wrong,* 
And  partly  that  bright  names  will  hallow  song ; 
And  his  was  of  the  bravest,  and  when  showerd 
Tlie  death-bolts  deadUest  the  thinn'd  files  along. 
Even  whero  the  thickest  of  war's  tempest  lower'd, 
T>iey  reach'd  no  nobler  breast  than  thine,  young, 
gallant  Howard  !* 


)  Sir  Eran  Cameron,  and  his  descendant  Donald,  the 
•*  gentle  Lochier  of  the  "  forty-five.** 

<  The  wood  of  Soignies  is  supposed  to  be  a  remnant  of 
tbe  forest  of  Ardennes,  famous  m  Boiardo's  Orlando,  and 
uuBortal  in  Shak8peare*s  *'  As  you  like  it**  It  is  also  cele- 
brated m  Tacitus,  as  being  the  spot  of  successful  defence 

I  tjrtbe  Germans  against  tbe  Roman  encroachments.  I  have 
ventured  to  adopt  tbe  name  connected  with  nobler  associa- 

[  tiou  than  those  of  mere  slaughter. 

*  [ChOde  Harold,  though  be  shuns  to  celebrate  the  victory 
of  Waterloo,  gives  us  here  a  most  beautiful  description  of 
tbe  evening  which  preceded  tbe  battle  of  Quatre  Bras,  the 


alarm  which  called  out  the  troops,  and  the  hurry  and  con- 
fonon  which  preceded  their  march.    I  am  not  sure  that  any 
Tenes  in  ooruagnage  surpass,  in  rigor  and  in  feeling,  this 
.  iMMt  beautifiU  dncnption.— Sia  WALTsa  Scott.] 

'     *  [See  pmtj  note  to  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Renew- 

*  [""  In  the  late  battles,  like  all  the  world,  I  have  lost  a  con- 
aectioa— poor  Frederick  Howard,  the  best  of  his  race.  I  had 
litUe  intercourse  of  late  year*  with  his  family ;  but  I  never 
I  ttw  or  beard  but  good  of  him.**— LonI  B.  to  Mr.  Moore.] 

'     *  My  guide  from  Mont  St.  Jean  over  the  field  seemed  in- 

;  MUgeot  and  accurate.    Tbe  place  where  Ma^or  Howard 

I  ml  was  not  far  from  two  tall  and  solitary  trees,  (there  was 

ilted,  cot  down,  or  sluTOTcd  in  tile  battle,)  which  stand  a 

fnr  yards  from  each  other  at  a  pathway's  side.    Beneath 


XXX. 

There  have  been  tears  and  broaking  hearts  for  thee, 
And  mine  were  nothing,  had  I  such  to  give ; 
Bnt  when  I  stood  beneath  the  fresh  green  tree, 
Which  living  waves  where  thou  didst  cease  to  live 
And  saw  around  me  tbe  wide  field  revive 
With  fruits  and  fertile  promise,  and  the  Spring 
Come  forth  her  work  of  gladness  to  contrive, 
With  all  her  reckless  birds  upon  the  wing, 
I  tom'd  fhim  all  she  brought  to  those  die  could  not 
bring.' 

XXXL 

I  tnm'd  to  thee,  to  thousands,  of  whom  each 

And  one  as  all  a  ghastly  gap  did  make 

In  his  own  kind  and  kindred,  whom  to  teach 

Forgetfulneas  were  meroy  for  their  sake ; 

The  Archangel's  trump,  not  Glory's,  must  awake 

Those  whom  they  thirat  for ,  ^hongk  the  sound  of 

Fame 
May  for  a  moment  sooth,  it  cannot  slake 
The  fever  of  vain  longing,  and  the  name 
So  hcmor'd  but  assumes  a  stronger,  bitterer  claim. 


I 


XXXII.  ; 

They  monm,  but  smile  at  length;  and,  smiling, 

mourn: 
The  tree  will  wither  long  before  it  fall ; 
The  hull  drives  on,  thoi^  mast  and  sail  be  torn ; 
The  roof-tree  sinks,  but  moulders  on  the  hall 
In  massy  hoariness ;  the  ruin'd  wall 
Stands  when  its  wind-worn  battlements  are  gone ; 
The  bars  survive  the  captive  they  inthral ;       [sun ; 
The  day  drags  through  though  storms  keep  out  the 
And  thus  the  heart  will  break,  yet  brokenly  live  on : 

XXXIII. 

Even  as  a  broken  mirror,  which  the  glass 
In  every  fragment  multiplies ;  and  makes 
A  thousand  images  of  one  that  was, 
The  same,  and  still  the  more,  the  more  it  breaks ; 
And  thus  the  heart  will  do  which  not  forsakes, 
living  in  shatter'd  guise,  and  still,  and  cold, 
And  bloodless,  with  its  rieepless  sorrow  aches. 
Yet  withers  on  till  all  without  is  old. 
Showing  no  visible  sign,  for  such  thmgs  are  untold.^ 


these  he  died  and  was  buried.  The  body  has  since  been  re- 
moved to  England.  A  small  hollow  for  the  nresent  marks 
where  it  lay,  But  will  probably  soon  be  effacea ;  the  plough 
has  been  upon  it,  and  the  grain  is.  After  pointing  out  the 
different  spots  where  Picton  and  other  gallant  men  had  per- 
ished, the  guide  said, "  Here  Major  Howard  lay :  I  was  near 
him  when  wounded.**  I  told  hun  mjt  relationship,  and  he 
seemed  then  still  more  anxious  to  point  out  the  particular 
spot  and  circumstances.  The  place  is  one  of  the  most 
marked  in  the  field,  from  the  peculiarity  of  the  two  trees 
above  mentioned.  I  went  on  horseback  twice  over  tbe  field, 
comparing  it  with  my  recollection  of  similar  scenes.  As  a 
plain,  Waterloo  seems  marked  out  for  the  scene  of  some 
great  action,  though  this  may  be  mere  imagination :  I  have 
viewed  with  attention  those  of  Platea,  Troy,  Maiitinea. 
Leuctra,  Chseronea,  and  Marathon ;  and  the  field  around 
Mont  St.  Jean  and  Hougoumont  appears  to  want  little  but 
a  better  cause,  and  that  undefinable  but  impressive  halo 
which  the  lapse  of  ages  throws  around  a  celebrated  spot,  to 
vie  in  interest  with  any  or  all  of  these,  except,  perhaps,  the 
last  mentioned.  i 

T  [There  is  a  richness  and  energy  in  this  passage,  which 
is  peculiar  to  Lord  Byron,  among  all  modem  poets.— a, 
throng  of  lowing  images,  poured  forth  at  once,  with  t   { 
facility  and  profusion,  which  must  appear  mere  wasteful- 
ness to  more  economical  writers,  and  a  certain  negligence   ; 
and  harshness  of  diction,  which  can  belong  only  to  an  au    ' 
thor  who  is  oppressed  with  the  exuberance  and  t.ipdity  i 
of  his  conceptions.— JxprasT.] 


42 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  hi. 


XXXIV. 

There  is  a  yery  life  in  our  despair, 
Vitality  of  poiBon, — a  quick  root 
Wliich  feeds  these  deadly  branches ;  for  it  were 
As  nothing  did  we  die ;  but  life  will  suit 
Itself  to  Arrow's  most  detested  fruit, 
Like  to  the  apples*  on  the  Dead  Sea's  shore, 
All  ashes  to  the  taste :  Did  man  compute 
Existence  by  enjoyment,  and  count  o*er 
Such  houxB  'gainst  years  of  life, — say,  would  he  name 
threescore? 

XXXV. 

The  Pisalmist  number'd  out  the  yean  of  man : 
They  are  enough ;  and  if  thy  tale  be  true. 
Thou,  who  didst  grudge  him  even  that  fleeting  span. 
More  than  enou^,  thou  fatal  Waterloo ! 
Millions  of  tongues  record  thee,  and  anew 
Their  children^  lips  shall  echo  them,  and  say — 
"  Here,  where  the  sword  united  nations  drew, 
Our  countrymen  were  warring  on  that  day !" 
And  this  is  much,  and  all  which  will  not  pass  away. 

XXXVL 

There  sunk  the  greatest,  nor  the  worst  of  men. 
Whose  spirit  antithetically  mix'd 
One  moment  of  the  mightiest,  and  again 
On  little  objects  with  like  firmness  fix'd. 
Extreme  m  all  things !  hadst  thou  been  betwixt. 
Thy  throne  had  stiff  been  thme,  or  never  been ; 
For  daring  made  thy  rise  as  fall :  thou  seek'st 
Even  now  to  reassume  the  imperial  mien, 
And  shake  again  the  world,  the  Thunderer  of  the  scene ! 

XXXVII. 

Conqueror  and  captive  of  the  earth  art  thou  I 
She  trembles  at  thee  still,  and  thy  wild  name 
Was  ne'er  more  bruited  in  men's  minds  than  now 
That  thou  art  nothmg,  save  the  jest  of  Fame, 
Who  woo'd  thee  once,  thy  vassal,  and  became 
The  flatterer  of  thy  fierceness,  till  thou  wert 
A  god  unto  thyself ;  nor  less  the  same 
To  the  astounded  kingdoms  all  inert. 
Who  deem'd  thee  for  a  tune  whate'er  thou  didst  assert 

XXXVIIL 

Oh,  more  or  less  than  man — in  high  or  low. 
Battling  with  nations,  flying  from  the  field  ; 
Now  making  monarchs'  necks  thy  footstool,  now 
More  than  thy  meanest  soldier  taught  to  yield : 
An  empire  thou  couldst  crush,  command,  rebuild, 
But  govern  not  thy  pettiest  passion,  nor. 
However  deeply  in  men's  spirits  skill'd, 
Look  through  thine  own,  nor  curb  the  lust  of  war, 
Nor  learn  th^t  tempted  Fate  will  leave  the  loftiest  star. 

XXXIX. 

Yet  well  thy  soul  hath  brook'd  the  turning  tide 
With  that  untaught  innate  philosophy. 
Which,  bu  it  wisdom,  coldness,  or  deep  pride, 
Is  gall  and  wormwood  to  an  enemy. 


>  The  (fabl«d)  apples  on  the  brink  of  the  lake  Asphaltes 
were  said  to  be  fair  without,  and,  within,  ashes.  Vide 
Tacitus,  Histor.  lib.  r.  7. 

>  The  great  error  of  Napoleon, "  if  we  have  writ  our  annals 
vrue,"  was  a  continued  obtrusion  on  mankind  of  his  want  of 
sll  community  of  feeling  for  or  with  them ;  perhaps  more 
offensive  to  human  vanity  than  the  active  cruelty  of  more 


When  the  whole  host  of  hatred  stood  hard  by, 
To  watch  and  mock  thee  shrinking,  tliou  hast  smiled, 
With  a  sedate  and  all-enduring  eye ; — 
When  Fortune  fled  her  spoil'd  and  favorite  childi 
Ele  stood  unbow'd  beneath  ihe  ills  upon  him  piled. 

XL. 


Sager  than  in  thy  fintwiui ;  for  in  them 
Ambition  steel'd  thee  on  too  far  to  show 
That  just  habitual  scorn,  which  could  contemn 
Men  and  their  thoughts ;  'twas  wise  to  feel,  not  so 
To  wear  it  ever  on  thy  Up  and  brow. 
And  spurn  the  mstruments  thou  wert  to  use 
Till  they  were  tum'd  unto  thine  overthrow ; 
'Tis  but  a  worthless  world  to  wm  or  lose  ; 
So  hath  it  proved  to  thee,  and  all  such  lot  who  choose. 

XLL 

If,  like  a  tower  upon  a  headlong  rock. 
Thou  hadst  been  made  to  stand  or  fall  alone, 
Such  scorn  of  man  had  help'd  to  brave  the  ^ock ; 
But  men's  thoughts  were  the  steps  which  paved  thy 

throne. 
Their  admiration  thy  best  weapon  shone ; 
The  part  of  Philip's  son  was  tliine,  not  then 
(Unless  aside  thy  purple  had  been  thrown) 
liike  stern  Diogenes  to  mock  at  men  ; 
For  sceptred  cynics  earth  were  far  too  wide  a  den.* 

XLII. 

But  quiet  to  quick  bosoms  is  a  hell. 
And  there  hath  been  thy  bane ;  there  is  a  fire 
And  motion  of  the  soul  which  will  not  dwell 
In  its  own  narrow  being,  but  aspire 
Beyond  the  fitting  medium  of  desire ; 
And,  but  once  kindled,  quenchless  evermore, 
Preys  upon  high  adventure,  nor  can  tire 
Of  aught  but  rest ;  a  fever  at  the  core. 
Fatal  to  him  who  bears,  to  all  who  ever  bore. 

XLIII. 

This  makes  the  madmen  who  have  made  men  mad 
By  their  contagion  ;  Conquerors  and  Kings, 
Founders  of  sects  and  systems,  to  whom  add 
Sophists,  Bards,  Statesmen,  all  unquiet  things 
Which  stir  too  strongly  the  soul's  secret  springs. 
And  are  themselves  the  fools  to  those  they  fool ; 
Envied,  yet  how  unenviable !  what  stings 
Are  theirs !    One  breast  laid  open  were  a  school 
Which  would  unteach  mankind  the  lust  to  shine  or 
rule: 

XLIV. 

Their  breath  is  agitation,  and  their  life 
A  storm  whereon  tliey  ride,  to  sink  at  last. 
And  yet  so  nursed  and  bigoted  to  strife, 
That  should  their  days,  surviving  perils  past, 
Melt  to  calm  twilight,  they  feci  overcast 
With  sorrow  and  supineuees,  and  so  die ; 
Even  as  a  flame  unfed,  which  runs  to  waste 
With  its  own  flickering,  or  a  sword  laid  by, 
Which  eats  into  itself,  and  rusts  ingloriously. 


trembling  and  suspicious  tyramiy.  Such  were  his  speeches 
to  public  assemblies  as  well  as  individuals ;  and  tne  single 
expression  which  he  is  said  to  have  used  on  returning  to 
Paris  after  the  Russian  winter  had  destroyed  his  army  .nib- 
bing his  hands  over  a  fire,  **  This  is  nleasantei  than  Mos- 
cow," would  probably  alienate  more  favor  from  his  cause 
than  the  destruction  and  reverses  which  led  to  the  remark. 


XLV. 
He  who  ascendi  to  moontain-tops,  diall  find 
The  loftMst  peaks  most  wrapp'd  in  clouds  and  snow ; 
He  who  snipaases  or  snbdnes  mankind, 
Mart  look  down  on  the  hate  of  those  below. 
Though  high  above  the  sun  of  glory  glow. 
And  far  b^ath  the  earth  and  ocean  spread, 
Round  him  are  icy  rocks,  and  loudly  blow 
CoDtending  tempests  on  his  naked  head, 
And  thus  reward  the  toils  which  to  those  summits  led.* 

XLVL 
Awtiy  with  these !  true  Wisdom's  world  will  be 
Within  its  own  creation,  or  in  thine. 
Maternal  Nature !  for  who  teems  like  thee. 
Thus  on  the  banks  of  thy  majestic  Rhme  7 
lliere  Harold  gazes  on  a  work  divine, 
A  blending  of  all  beauties ;  streams  and  dells. 
Fruit,  foliage,  crag,  wood,  cornfield,  mountain,  vine, 
And  cfaiefless  caiitles  breathing  stem  farewells 
Trotn   gray  but   leafy   walls,  where    Ruin   greenly 
dwells. 

XLvn. 

And  there  they  stand,  as  stands  a  lofty  mind, 
Worn,  but  unstooping  to  the  baser  crowd. 
All  tenantless,  save  to  the  crannying  wind. 
Or  holding  dark  communion  with  the  cloud. 
There  was  a  day  when  they  were  young  and  proud, 
Bannen  on  high,  and  battles  passM  below ; 
But  they  who  fought  are  in  a  bk>ody  shroud, 
And  those  which  waved  are  sbredless  dust  ere  now, 
And  the  bleak  battlements  shall  bear  no  future  blow. 

XLVIII. 
Beneath  these  battlements,  within  those  walls. 
Power  dwelt  amidst  her  passions ;  in  proud  state 
Each  robber  chief  upheld  his  armed  halls, 
Doing  his  evil  will,  nor  less  elate 
Than  mightier  heroes  of  a  longer  date. 
What  want  these  outlaws'  couquerors should  have? 
But  History's  purchased  page  to  call  them  great  ? 
A  wider  space,  an  ornamented  grave  ?  [brave. 

Tlieir  hopes  were  not  less  warm,  their  souls  were  full  as 

XLIX. 

In  their  baronial  fends  and  single  fields. 
What  deeds  of  prowess  unrecorded  died ! 
And  Love,  which  lent  a  blazon  to  their  shields. 
With  emblems  well  devised  by  amorous  pride. 
Through  all  the  mail  of  iron  hearts  would  glide ; 
But  ctill  their  flame  was  fierceness,  and  drew  on 
Kf  '41  contest  and  destruction  near  allied, 
And  many  a  tower  for  some  fair  mischief  won. 
Saw  the  discolored  Rhine  beneath  its  ruin  run. 


But  Thou,  exulting  and  abounding  river ! 
Making  thy  waves  a  blessing  as  &ey  flow 
Through  banks  whose  beauty  would  endure  forever 
Could  man  but  leave  thy  bright  creation  so, 


I  tThi»  is  certainlv  splendidly  written,  but  we  trust  it  is  not 
true.  From  Macedonia's  roadman  to  the  S wede— from  Nim- 

,  rod  lo  Bonaparte,— the  hunters  of  men  have  pursued  their 
sport  i^-ith  as  much  gayety,  and  as  UtUe  remorse,  as  the 
TOoters  of  other  animals  ;  and  have  hved  as  cheerily  in  their 

,  <hf 5  of  action,  and  as  comfortably  in  their  repose,  as  the 

,  fouowers  of  better  pursuits.   It  would  be  strange,  therefore. 

I  If  tlw  other  active  but  more  innocent  spints,  whom  Lord 
Bjrron  has  here  placed  in  the  same  predicament,  and  who 

I  mtue  all  their  sources  of  eigoymeiit,  without  the  guilt  and 


Nor  its  fair  promise  from  the  surface  mow 
With  the  sharp  scythe  of  conflict, — then  to  see 
Thy  valley  of  sweet  waters,  were  to  know 
Earth  paved  like  Heaven ;  and  to  seem  such  to  me. 
Even  now  what  wants  thy  stream? — that  it  should 
Lethe  be. 

LL 

A  thousand  battles  have  assaird  thy  banks. 
But  these  and  half  their  fame  have  pass'd  away, 
And  Slaughter  heap*d  on  high  his  weltering  ranks ; 
Their  very  graves  are  gone,  and  what  are  they? 
Thy  tide  wash'd  down  the  blood  of  yesterday. 
And  all  was  stainless,  and  on  thy  clear  stream 
6Ia8B*d  with  its  dancing  light  the  sunny  ray  ; 
But  o'er  the  blacken'd  memory's  blighting  dream 
Thy  waves  would  vainly  roll,  all  sweeping  as  Uiey  seem. 

UI. 

Thus  Harold  inly  said,  and  pass'd  along, 
Yet  not  insensibly  to  all  which  here 
Awoke  the  jocund  birds  to  early  song 
In  glens  which  might  have  made  even  exile  dear : 
Though  on  his  brow  were  graven  lines  austere, 
And  tranquil  sternness  which  had  ta'en  the  place 
Of  feelings  fierier  far  but  less  severe, 
Joy  was  not  always  absent  from  his  face,       [trace. 
But  o'er  it  in  such  scenes  woidd  steal  with  transient 

UH. 

Nor  was  all  love  shut  from  him,  though  his  days 
Of  passion  had  consumed  themselves  to  dust. 
It  is  in  vain  that  we  would  coldly  gaze 
On  such  as  smile  upon  us ;  the  heart  must 
Leap  kmdly  back  to  kindness,  though  disgust 
Hath  wean'd  it  from  all  woridlings :  thus  he  felt. 
For  there  was  soft  remembrance,  and  sweet  trust 
In  one  fond  breast,  to  which  his  own  woidd  melt, 
And  in  its  tenderer  hoiu:  on  that  his  bosom  dwelt 

LIV. 

And  he  had  leam'd  to  love, — I  know  not  why. 
For  this  in  such  as  him  seems  strange  of  mood, — 
The  helpless  looks  of  blooming  infancy. 
Even  in  its  eaiiiest  nurture ;  what  subdued, 
To  change  like  this,  a  mind  so  far  imbued 
With  scorn  of  man,  it  little  boots  to  know ; 
But  thus  it  was ;  and  though  in  solitude 
Small  power  the  nipp'd  afiections  have  to  grow. 
In  him  this  glow'd  when  all  beside  had  cenaea  to  glow. 

LV. 

And  there  was  one  soft  breast,  as  hath  been  said, 
Which  imto  his  was  bound  by  stronger  ties 
Than  the  church  Imks  withal ;  and,  though  unwed, 
That  love  was  pure,  and,  far  above  disguise, 
Had  stood  the  test  of  mortal  enmities 
Still  undivided,  and  cemented  more 
By  peril,  dreaded  most  in  female  eyes ; 
But  this  was  firm,  and  from  a  foreign  shore    [pour ! 
Well  to  that  heart  might  his  these  absent  greetings 


the  hardness  which  they  cannot  fail  ot  contractmg,  should 
be  more  miserable  or  more  unfriended  than  those  splendid 
curses  of  their  kind ;  and  it  would  be  passmg  strange,  and 
pitiful,  if  the  most  precious  gifts  of  Providence  should 
produce  only  unhappiness,  and  mankind  regard  with  hos- 
tility their  greatest  benefactors.— JBPFBEy.) 

>  '*  What  wants  that  knave  that  a  king  should  have  ?** 
was  King  James's  question  on  meeting  Johnny  Arm- 
strong and  his  followers  in  full  accoutrements.— See  the 
BaUa^. 


44 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  hi. 


1. 
The  casOed  crajr  of  DrechenfelB' 
Frowns  o'er  the  wide  and  whidmg  RhoMi 
Whose  breast  of  waten  lHt>adly  swells 
Between  the  banks  which  bear  the  vine. 
And  hills  all  rich  with  bkMsom'd  trees, 
And  fields  which  promise  corn  and  wine, 
And  scatter'd  cities  crownmg  these, 
Whose  far  white  walls  along  them  shine. 
Have  strew'd  a  scene,  which  I  should  see 
With  double  joy  wert  thou  with  me. 

2. 

And  peasant  girls,  with  deep  blue  eyes, 
And  hands  which  offer  early  flowers, 
Walk  smiling  o'er  this  paradise ; 
Above,  the  frequent  feudal  towers 
Through  green  leaves  lift  their  walls  of  gray, 
And  many  a  rock  which  steeply  lowers. 
And  noble  arch  in  proud  decay, 
Look  o'er  this  vale  of  vintage-bowers  ; 
But  one  thing  want  these  banks  of  Rhine, — 
Thy  gentle  &nd  to  clasp  in  mine ! 

3. 

send  the  lilies  given  to  me ; 
rhough  long  before  thy  hand  they  touch, 
I  know  that  they  must  withered  be, 
But  yet  reject  them  not  as  such ; 
For  I  have  cherish'd  them  as  dear, 
Because  they  yet  may  meet  thine  eye. 
And  guide  thy  soul  to  mine  even  here. 
When  thou  biehold'st  them  drooping  nigh. 
And  know'st  them  gathered  by  the  Rhme, 
And  offered  from  my  heart  to  thine . 

4. 

Tlie  river  nobly  foams  and  flows. 

The  charm  of  this  enchanted  mund. 

And  all  its  thousand  turns  disclose 

Some  fi^eher  beauty  varying  round : 

The  haughtiest  breast  its  wish  might  bound 

Through  'ife  to  dwell  delighted  here ; 

Nor  could  on  earth  a  spot  be  found 

To  nature  and  to  me  so  dear. 

Could  thy  dear  eyes  in  following  mine 

Still  sweeten  more  these  banks  of  Rhine ! 

LVL 

By  Coblentz,  on  a  rise  of  gentle  ground. 
There  is  a  small  and  simple  pynunid, 
Crownmg  the  summit  of  the  verdant  mound ; 
Beneath  its  base  are  heroes'  ashes  hid. 


1  The  castle  of  DrachenfeU  stands  on  the  highest  summit 
of  **  the  Seven  Mountains,**  over  the  Rhine  banks ;  it  is  in 
rains,  and  connected  with  some  singular  traditions :  it  is  the 
first  in  \iew  on  the  road  from  Bonn,  but  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  river ;  on  this  bank,  nearly  facinR  it,  are  the  remains 
of  another,  called  the  Jew's  Castle,  and  a  large  cross  com- 
memorative  of  the  murder  of  a  chief  by  his  brother.  The 
number  of  castles  and  cities  along  the  course  of  the  Rhine  on 
both  sides  is  very  great,  and  their  situations  remarkably 
beautiful.  [These  verses  were  written  on  the  banks  of  the 
Rhine,  in  Mav.  The  original  pencilling  is  before  us.  It  is 
needless  to  observe  that  they  were  addressed  to  his  Sister.) 

*  The  monument  of  the  young  and  lamented  General 
Marceau  (killed  by  a  nile-baU  at  Alterkirchen,  on  the  last  day 
of  the  fourth  year  of  the  French  republic)  still  remains  as  de- 
scribed. The  inscriptions  on  his  monument  are  rather  too 
long,  and  not  required :  his  name  was  enough ;  France 
aiored,  and  her  enemies  admired ;  both  wept  over  him.  His 
fimeral  was  attended  by  the  generals  and  detachments  from 
both  armies.  In  the  same  grave  General  Hoche  is  interred, 
a  gallant  man  also  in  every  sense  of  the  word ;  but  though  he 
distinguished  himself  greatly  in  battle,  he  had  not  the  good 
fdftune  to  die  there :  his  death  was  attended  by  suspicions  of 


Our  enemy's, — but  let  not  that  forbid 
Honor  to  Muceau !  o'er  whose  early  tomb 
Tears,  big  tears,  gush'd  from  the  rough  soldier's  lid. 
Lamenting  and  yet  envying  such  a  doom, 
Falling  for  France,  whose  rights  he  battled  to  resimie. 

LVIL 

Brief,  brave,  and  glorious  was  his  young  career, — 
His  mourners  were  two  hosts,  his  frien<k  and  foes ; 
And  fitly  may  the  stranger  lingering  here 
Pray  for  his  gallant  spirit's  bri^t  repose ; 
For  he  was  Freedom's  champion,  one  of  those. 
The  few  in  number,  who  had  not  o'erstepp'd 
The  charter  to  chastise  which  she  beetows 
On  such  as  wield  her  weapons ;  he  had  kept 
The  whiteness  of  his   soul,  and  thus  men  o'er  him 
wept* 

Lvni. 

Here  EhrenbroitBtein,*  with  her  shattered  wall 
Black  with  the  mhier's  blast,  upon  her  height 
Yet  shows  of  what  she  was,  when  shell  and  ball 
Reboundmg  idly  on  her  strength  did  Ugfat : 
A  tower  of  victory !  from  whence  the  flight 
Of  baffled  foes  was  watch'd  along  the  plain : 
But  Peace  destroyed  what  War  could  never  blight. 
And  laid  those  proud  rood  bare  to  Smnmer's  rain-— 
On  which  the  iron  shower  for  years  had  poiur'd  in  vain. 

LIX. 

Adieu  to  thee,  faur  Rhino  I    How  long  delighted 
The  stranger  fain  would  linger  on  his  way  I 
Thine  is  a  scene  alike  where  souls  united 
Or  lonely  Contemplation  thus  might  stray ; 
And  coiild  the  ceaseless  vultures  cease  to  prey 
On  self>condemniug  bosoms,  it  were  here. 
Where  Natture,  nor  too  sombre,  nor  too  gay. 
Wild  but  not  rude,  awful  yet  not  austere. 
Is  to  the  mellow  E^arth  as  Autunm  to  the  year. 

LX. 

Adieu  to  thee  again !  a  vain  adieu ! 
There  can  be  no  farewell  to  scene  like  thine  ; 
The  mind  is  color'd  by  thy  every  hue ; 
And  if  reluctantly  the  eyes  resign 
Their  cherish'd  gaxe  upon  thee,  lovely  Rhine  !* 
'Tis  with  the  thankful  glance  of  parting  praise ; 
More  mighty  spots  may  rise — ^more  glaring  shine. 
But  none  unite  in  one  attaching  maze 
The  brilliant,  fair,  and  soft, — the  glories  of  old  days, 


poison.    A  separate  monument  (not  over  his  body,  which  is 
buried  by  Marceau*s)  is  raised  for  him  near  Andemach,  op- 
posite to  which  one  of  his  most  memorable  exploits  was  per- 
formed, in  throwing  a  bridge  to  an  island  on  the  Rhme. 
The  shape  and  style  are  different  from  that  of  Marceau's,    | 
and  the  inscription  more  simple  and  pleasing  :— "  The  Army    i 
of  the   Sambre   and  Meuse  to   its  Commander-in-Cluel    ' 
Hoche.**    This  is  all,  and  as  it  should  be.    Hoche  was  es> 
teemCMl  among  the  first  of  France's  earlier  generals,  before    \ 
Bonaparte  monopolized  her  triumphs.    He  was  the  dei>linetl 
commander  of  the  invading  army  of  Ireland.  | 

»  Ehrenbreitstein,  t.  e.  "  the  broad  stone  of  honor,"  one   . 
of  the  strongest  fortresses  in  Europe,  was  dismantle  J  and    | 
blown  up  by  the  French  at  the  truce  of  Leobeu.  It  had  been.    | 
and  could  only  be,  reduced  by  famine  or  treachpry.  It  yielded    * 
to  the  former,  aided  by  surprise.    After  having  »ceii  the  for- 
tifications of  Gibraltar  and  Malta,  it  did  not  much  strike  by 
comparison  ;  but  the  situation  is  commandmg.    General 
Marceau  besieged  it  in  vain  for  some  time,  and  I  slopi  in  a 
room  where  I  was  shown  a  window  at  which  he  is  faid  to 
have  been  standini 
moonlight,  when  a 

*  [On  taking  Hockheim, 


s  siiow  u  a  winuow  ai  wmcn  ne  is  t>aia  lo 
jiK  observing  the  progress  of  the  siege  by 
a  ball  struck  immediately  below  it. 
)ckheim,  the  Austrians,  m  one  part  of  tbm 


CaITTO  III. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


45 


LXL 

Hm  negligeiitly  grand,  the  finutfal  bloom 
Of  eocmiigr  lipeneflB,  the  white  city's  aheen, 
llie  roUiDff  fltTMin,  the  precipice's  gloom, 
Tlie  foiesrs  growth,  and  Gothic  walk  between, 
The  wild  rocks  Aaped  as  they  had  turrpts  been 
In  mockery  of  man's  ait ;  and  these  withal 
A  mt»  of  foces  happy  as  the  scene, 
Whose  fertile  bounties  here  extend  to  all, 
StiD  fpcinffing  o'er  thy  banks,  though  Empires  near 
&em£iU. 

LXU. 

Bot  these  recede.    Above  me  are  the  Alps, 
The  palaces  of  Nature,  whose  vast  walls 
Have  pinnacled  in  ckrads  their  snowy  scalps, 

I     And  throned  Eternity  in  icy  halls 
Of  cold  sobUmity,  where  forms  and  falls 

I     The  avalanche--4he  thunderbolt  of  snow ! 
All  that  expands  the  spirit,  yet  appals, 

I     Gather  around  these  summits,  as  to  show      ^below. 

I  How  Earth  may  pierce  to  Heaven,  yet  leave  vam  man 

LXIIL 

But  ere  these  matchless  heights  I  dare  to  scan, 
Tliere  is  a  spot  should  not  be  passM  in  vain, — 
Morat !  the  proud,  the  patriot  field !  where  man 
Blay  raxe  on  ghastly  trophies  of  the  slam. 
Nor  Uosh  for  tiiose  who  conquered  on  that  plain ; 
Here  Burgundy  bequeath'd  his  tombless  host, 
A  bony  heap,  through  ages  to  remain, 
Themselves  Uieir  monument ; — the  Stygian  coast 
UsMpnlcfared  thev  roam'd,  and  shriek'd  each  wan- 
denng  ghost' 

LXIV. 
Wh3e  Waterloo  with  Canns's  carnage  vies, 
Morat  and  Marathon  twin  names  shall  stand ; 
They  were  true  Glory's  stamlesB  victories, 
Won  by  the  unambitious  heart  and  hand 
Of  a  proud,  brotherly,  and  civic  band, 
An  onbought  champions  in  no  princely  cause 
Of  vice-entail'd  Corruption ;  they  no  land 
Doom'd  to  bewail  the  blasphemy  of  laws 
Slaking  kings'  rights  divine,  by  some  Draconic  clause. 


ogigcmcuty  got  to  the  brow  of  the  Mil,  whence  they  had 
their  ftnt  tww  of  the  Rhine.  They  instantly  halted--not 
t  gon  was  l&red— not  a  voice  heard :  but  they  stood  gazing 
oa  the  river  with  those  feelings  whicb  the  events  of  the  last 
ifteen  years  at  once  called  up.  Prince  Schwartzenberg 
rode  np  to  know  the  cause  of  this  sudden  stop ;  then  they 
pare  three  cheers,  rushed  after  the  enemy,  and  drove  them 
mo  the  water.] 

'  The  chapel  is  destroyed,  and  the  pyramid  of  bones  dimln- 
ahed  to  a  small  number  by  the  Burgundlan  legion  in  the 
Krvice  of  France;  who  anxiously  effa^  this  record  of  their 
uoeston*  leas  snccessAil  invasions.  A  few  still  remain,  not- 
^nthstazhding  the  pains  taken  by  the  Burgimdians  for  ages, 
(tU  who  passed  that  way  reoraving  a  bone  to  their  own 
cmrntry,)  and  the  less  justifiable  larcenies  of  the  Swiss  pos- 
tilhons,  who  carried  them  off  to  sell  for  knife-haindles,  a  pur- 
poie  for  which  the  whiteness  imbibed  by  the  bleaching  of 
vevs  had  rendered  them  in  great  request.  Of  these  relics  I 
rcmored  to  brine  away  as  much  as  may  have  made  a  quarter 
of  a  hero,  for  wnich  toe  sole  excuse  is,  that  if  I  had  not,  the 
Kit  passer-by  might  have  perverted  them  to  worw  uses 
Urn  the  careful  preservation  which  I  intend  for  them. 

'  Aventjcom,  near  Horat,  was  the  Roman  capital  of  Hel- 
vetia, where  Avenches  now  stands. 

*  Joha  Alpinnla,  a  young  Avoitian  prieness,  died  toon 
■fter  a  vam  endeavor  to  save  her  father,  condemned  to  death 
ii  a  traitor  by  Aulos  Csciaa.  Her  epitaph  was  discovered 
— T  years  ago ;— it  is  thus :— "  Julia  Alpinula :  Hie  jaceo. 


I  asatn 


LXV. 
By  a  lone  wall  a  lonelier  colmnn  rears 
A  gray  and  grief-wom  aspect  of  old  days ; 
Tis  the  last  remnant  of  the  wreck  of  years, 
And  looks  as  with  the  wild-bewilder*d  gaze 
Of  one  to  stone  converted  by  amaze. 
Yet  still  with  consciousness ;  and  thero  it  stands 
Making  a  marvel  that  it  not  decays. 
When  the  coeval  pride  of  human  hands, 
licyell'd  Aventioum,*  hath  strew'd  her  subject  lands. 

LXVI. 

And  there — oh  I  sweet  and  sacred  be  the  name    - 
Julia — the  daughter,  the  devoted — gave 
Her  youth  to  heaven  ;  her  heart,  beneath  a  claim 
Nearest  to  Heaven's,  broke  o'er  a  father's  grave. 
Justice  is  sworn  'gainst  tears,  and  hers  would  crare 
The  life  she  lived  in  ;  but  the  judge  was  just. 
And  then  she  died  on  him  she  coiud  not  save, 
llieir  tomb  was  simple,  and  without  a  bust. 
And  held  within  their  urn  one  mind,  one  heart,  one 
dust* 

liXVIL 
But  these  are  deeds  which  should  not  pass  away. 
And  names  that  must  not  wither,  tbotigh  the  earth 
Forgets  her  empires  with  a  just  decay,  [birth ; 

The  enslavers  and  the  enslaved,  their  death  and 
The  high,  the  mountain-majesty  of  worth 
Should  be,  and  shall,  survivor  of  its  wo. 
And  from  its  immortahty  look  forth 
In  the  sun's  face,  like  yonder  Alpine  snow,* 
Imperishably  pure  beyond  all  things  below. 

LXVIIL 
Lake  Leman  woos  me  with  its  crystal  face,* 
The  mirror  where  the  stars  and  mountains  view 
The  stillness  of  their  aspect  in  each  trace 
Its  clear  depth  yields  of  their  far  height  and  hue : 
There  is  too  much  of  man  here,  to  look  through 
With  a  fit  mind  the  might  which  I  behold ; 
But  soon  in  me  shall  Loneliness  renew 
Thoughts  hid,  but  not  lees  cherish'd  than  of  old. 
Ere  mingling  with  the  herd  had  penn'd  me  in  their 


Infelicis  patris  infelix  proles.  Deae  Aventi»  Sacerdos.  £zo- 
rara  patns  neoem  non  potui :  Male  mori  in  fatis  ille  erat. 
Vixi  annos  xxiii.*'— I  know  of  no  human  composition  so  af- 
fecting as  this,  nor  a  history  of  deeper  interest.  These  are 
the  names  and  actions  which  ought  not  to  perish,  and  to 
which  we  turn  with  a  true  and  healthy  tenderness,  from  the 
wretched  and  glittering  detail  of  a  confused  mass  of  con- 
quests and  battles,  with  which  the  mind  is  roused  for  a  time 
to  a  false  and  feverish  sympathy,  from  whence  it  recurs 
at  length  with  all  the  nausea  consequent  on  such  intoxi- 
cation. 

4  This  is  written  in  the  eye  of  Mont  Blanc,  (June  3d,  1616,) 
which  even  at  this  distance  dazzles  mine.— (July  20th.)  I 
this  day  observed  for  some  time  the  distinct  reflection  of 
Mont  Blanc  and  Mont  Argentiire  in  the  calm  of  the  lake, 
which  I  was  crossing  in  my  boat ;  the  distance  of  these 
mountains  from  their  mirror  is  sixty  miles. 

•  In  the  exquisite  lines  which  the  poet,  at  this  time, 
addressed  to  his  sister,  there  is  the  following  touching 


*  I  did  remind  thee  of  our  own  dear  lake, 
By  the  old  hall  which  may  be  mine  no  more. 
Leman*s  is  fair ;  bot  think  not  I  forsake 
The  sweet  remembrance  of  a  dearer  shore : 
Sad  havoc  Time  most  with  my  memory  make 
Ere  that  or  thou  can  fade  these  eyes  before  ; 
Though,  like  all  thincs  which  I  nave  loved,  they  aie 
Redgn'a  forever,  or  divided  far.*' 


46 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  hi. 


LXIX. 

To  fly  from,  need  not  be  to  hate,  mankind : 

All  are  not  fit  with  them  to  stir  and  toil, 

Nor  is  it  discontent  to  keep  the  mind 

Deep  in  its  fountain,  lest  it  overboil 

In  the  hot  throng,  where  we  become  the  spoil 

Of  oar  infection,  till  too  late  and  long 

We  may  deplore  and  struggle  with  the  coil. 

In  wretched  interchange  of  wrong  for  wrong 

'Midst  a  contentious  world,  striving  where  none  are 
strong. 

LXX. 
There,  in  a  moment,  we  may  plunge  our  yean 
In  fatal  penitence,  and  in  the  blight 
Of  our  own  soul,  turn  all  our  blood  to  tears, 
And  color  things  to  come  with  hues  of  Night ; 
The  race  of  life  becomes  a  hopeless  flight 
To  those  that  walk  in  darkness :  on  the  sea, 
The  boldest  steer  but  where  their  ports  invite, 
But  there  are  wanderers  o*er  Eternity  [be. 

Whose  bark  drives  on  and  on,  and  anchored  ne'er  diall 

LXXI. 

Is  it  not  better,  then,  to  be  alone, 
And  love  Earth  only  for  its  earthly  sake  ? 
By  the  blue  rushing  of  the  arrowy  Rhone,' 
Or  the  pure  bosom  of  its  nursing  lake, 
Which  feeds  it  as  a  mother  who  doth  make 
A  fuir  but  frowurd  infant  her  own  care. 
Kissing  its  cries  away  as  these  awake  ; — 
Is  it  not  better  thus  our  lives  to  wear, 
Thau  join  the  crushing  crowd,  doom*d  to  inflict  or  bear  7 

LXXII 

I  live  not  in  myself,  but  I  become 
Portion  of  that  around  me  ;  and  to  me 
High  mountains  are  a  feeling,^  but  the  hum 
Of  human  cities  torture :  I  can  see 
Nothing  to  loathe  in  nature,  save  to  be 
A  link  reluctant  in  a  fleshly  chain, 
Class'd  among  creatures,  when  the  soul  can  flee, 
And  with  the  sky,  the  peak,  the  heaving  plain 
Of  ocean,  or  the  stars,  mingle,  and  not  in  vain. 

LXXIII. 

And  thus  I  am  absorbed,  and  this  is  life : 
I  look  upon  the  peopled  desert  past, 
As  on  a  place  of  agony  and  strife, 
Where,  for  some  sin,  to  Sorrow  I  was  cast, 
To  act  and  suffer,  but  remount  at  last 


»  The  color  of  the  Rhone  at  Geneva  is  blue,  to  a  depth  of 
'   tint  which  I  have  never  seen  equalled  in  water,  salt  or  iresh, 
(   except  in  the  Mediterranean  and  Archipelago.— [See  Don 
Juan,  c.  XIV.  st.  87,  for  a  beautiful  comparison  :— 
"  There  was  no  great  disparity  of  years, 
,  Though  much  in  temper  ;  but  they  never  clash'd : 

^  They  moved  like  stars  united  in  their  spheres. 

Or  like  the  Rhone  by  Lenian's  waters  wash'd, 
^         Where  mingled  and  yet  separate  appears 
;  The  river  from  the  lake,  all  bluely  dash'd 

Through  the  serene  and  placid  glassy  deep, 
Which  fain  would  lull  its  river  child  to  sleep.**! 
*  [••  Mr.  Hobhouse  and  myself  are  just  returned  from  a 
journey  of  lakes  and  mountains.   We  have  been  to  the  Grin- 
delwal'd,  and  the  Jungfrau,  and  stood  on  the  summit  of  the 
Wengen  Alp ;  and  seen  torrents  of  900  feet  in  fall,  and  gla- 
ciers of  all  dimensions :  we  have  heard  shepherds'  pipes,  and 
avalanches,  and  looked  on  the  clouds  foaming  up  from  the 
valleys  below  us  like  the  spray  of  the  ocean  of  hell.    Cha- 
mouni,  and  that  which  it  inherits,  we  saw  a  month  ago ; 
but.  though  Mont  Blanc  is  higher,  it  is  not  equal  in  wildness 
,  to  the  Jungfrau,  the  Eighers,  the  Shreckhom,  and  the  Rose  ' 
I    Glaciers."— B.  Uttert,  Sept.  1816.1 


With  a  fresh  pinion ;  which  I  feel  to  spring, 
Though  young,  yet  waxing  vigorous,  as  the  Mast 
Which  it  would  cope  with,  on  delighted  wing. 

Spuming  the  clay -cold  bonds  which  round  our  being 
cling. 

LXXIV. 
And  when,  at  length,  the  mind  riiall  be  all  free 
From  what  it  hates  in  this  degraded  form, 
Reft  of  its  carnal  life,  save  what  shall  be 
Existent  happier  in  the  fly  and  worm, — 
When  elements  to  elements  confoim, 
And  dust  is  as  it  should  be,  shall  I  not 
Feel  all  I  see,  less  dazzling,  but  more  warm? 
The  bodiless  thought?  the  Spirit  of  each  spot  7 

Of  which,  even  now,  I  share  at  times  the  immortal  lot? 

LXXV. 

Are  not  the  mountains,  waves,  and  does,  a  put 
Of  me  and  of  my  soul,  as  I  of  them  ? 
Is  not  the  love  of  these  deep  in  my  heart 
With  a  pure  passion  ?  should  I  not  contemn 
All  objects,  if  compared  with  these  ?  and  stem 
A  tide  of  suffering,  rather  than  forego 
Such  feelings  for  the  hard  and  woridly  phlegm 
Of  those  whose  eyes  are  only  tum'd  below. 
Gazing  upon  the  ground,  with  thoughts  which  dare 
not  glow  f 

LXXVI. 

But  this  is  not  my  theme  ;  and  I  return 
To  that  which  is  immediate,  and  require 
Those  who  find  contemplation  in  the  urn. 
To  look  on  One,  whose  dust  was  once  all  fire, 
A  native  of  the  land  where  I  respire 
The  clear  air  for  a  while — a  passing  guest. 
Where  he  became  a  being, — ^whose  desire 
Was  to  be  glorious  ;  Hwas  a  foolish  quest, 
The  which  to  gain  and  keep,  he  sacrificed  all  reit 

LXXVII. 
Here  the  self-torturing  sophist,  wild  Rousseau,' 
The  apostle  of  affliction,  he  who  threw 
Enchantment  over  passion,  and  from  wo 
Wrung  overwhelming  eloquence,  first  drew 
The  breath  which  made  him  wretched ;  yet  he  knew 
How  to  make  madness  beautiful,  and  cast 
OVr  erring  deeds  and  thoughts  a  heavenly  hue* 
Of  words,  like  sunbeams,  dazzling  as  they  pass'd 
The  eyes,  which  o'er  them  shed  tears  feelingly  and 
fast 


» f"  I  have  traversed  all  Rousseau's  ground  with  the 
*  HMoise*  before  me,  and  am  struck  to  a  degree  that  I  can- 
not express  with  the  force  and  accuracy  of  his  descriptions, 
and  the  beauty  of  their  reality.  Meulerie,  Clarens,  and 
Vevay,  and  the  Chftteau  de  Ctullon,  are  places  of  which  I 
shall  say  little :  because  all  I  could  say  must  fall  short  of 
the  impressions  they  stamp.*'— B.  Letters.^ 

*  [**  It  is  evident  that  the  impassioned  parts  of  Rousseau's 
romance  had  made  a  deep  impression  upon  the  feelings  of 
the  noble  poet.  The  enthusiasm  expressed  by  Lord  Byron  is 
no  small  tribute  to  the  power  possessed  by  Jean  Jacques  over 
the  passions :  and,  to  say  truth,  we  needed  some  such  evi- 
dence ;  for,  though  almost  ashamed  to  avow  the  truth,— still, 
like  the  barber  of  Midas,  we  must  speak  or  die.— we  have  ne- 
ver been  able  to  feel  the  interest  or  discover  the  merit  of  this 
far-famed  performance.  That  there  is  much  eloquence  in  the 
letters  we  readily  admit :  there  lay  Rousseau's  strensth.  Bot 
his  lovers,  the  celebrated  St.  Preux  and  Julie,  have,  froia  tne 
earliest  moment  we  have  heard  the  tale,  (which  we  well  re» 
member,)  down  to  the  present  hour,  totally  failed  to  interest 
us.  There  might  be  some  constitutional  hardness  of  heart , 
but  like  Lance's  pebble-hearted  cur,  Crab,  we  remained  Ury 
eyed  while  all  wept  aroimd  us.    And  still,  on  resuming  tl  » 


Canto  ni. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


47 


LXXVIIL 

His  love  was  paasiou's  essence — as  a  tree 
On  fire  by  lightning ;  with  ethereal  flame 
Kindled  he  was,  and  blasted ;  for  to  be 
Thos,  and  enamored,  were  in  him  the  same 
But  his  was  not  the  love  of  living  dame, 
Nor  of  the  dead  who  rise  upon  our  dreams, 
Bat  of  ideal  beauty,  which  became 
In  him  existence,  and  overflowing  teems 
Along  his  burning  page,  distempered  though  it  seems. 

LXXIX. 

TkiM  breathed  itself  to  life  in  Julie,  thig 
Invested  her  with  all  that's  wild  and  sweet ; 
This  haJlow'd,  too,  the  memorable  kiss' 
Which  every  mom  his  fever*d  lip  would  greet. 
From  hen,  who  but  with  friendship  his  would  meet ; 
But  to  that  gentle  touch,  through  brain  and  breast 
Flash'd  the  thriU*d  spirit's  love^evouring  boat ; 
In  that  absorbing  si^  perchance  more  Messed 
Tlian  vulgar  minds  may  be  with  all  they  seek  possess'd.' 

LXXX. 

His  life  was  one  long  war  with  self-sought  foes, 
Or  friends  by  him  self-banish'd ;  for  his  mind 
Had  grown  Suspicion's  sanctuary,  and  chose 
For  its  own  cruel  sacrifice  the  kind, 
'Gainst  whom  he  raged  with  fury  strange  and  blind. 
But  he  was  phrensi^^ — ^wherefore,  who  may  know? 
Since  cause  might  be  which  skill  could  never  find  ; 
Bat  he  was  phrensied  by  disease  or  wo 

To  that  wont  pitch  of  ail,  which  wears  a  reasoning 
show. 

LXXXL 
For  then  he  was  injured,  and  fiom  him  came, 
As  from  the  Pythian's  mystic  cave  of  yore, 
ThoBe  oracles  which  set  the  world  in  flame. 
Nor  ceased  to  bum  till  kingdoms  were  no  more : 
Did  he  not  this  for  France  7  which  lay  before 
Bow'd  to  the  inborn  tyranny  of  years? 
Broken  and  trembling  to  the  yoke  she  bore, 
Till  by  the  voice  of  mm  and  his  compeers, 

RoQsed  up  to  too  much  wrath,  which  follows  o'er- 
grown  fisan  I 

LXXXII. 
Thej  made  themselves  a  fearful  monument ! 
Tbe  wreck  of  old  opinions — ^things  which  grew. 
Breathed  fiom  the  birth  of  time :  the  veil  they  rent, 
And  what  behmd  it  lay,  all  earth  shall  view. 
But  good  with  ill  they  lUso  overthrew, 
Leaving  but  ruins,  wherewith  to  rebuild 
Upon  the  same  foundation,  and  renew 
Dungeons  and  thrones,  which  the  same  hour  refill'd, 
As  heretofore,  because  ambition  was  self-will'd. 


Tolune,  even  now,  we  can  see  little  in  the  loves  of  these 

,  Jfo  tiresome  pedanU  to  interest  our  feelings  for  either  of 

g«a-   To  state  our  opinion  in  language  (sec  Burke's  Re- 

■Mdons)  much  better  than  our  own,  we  are  unfortunate 

,  c^wgh  to  regard  this  far-famed  history  of  philosophical 

pltery  as  an  '  onfashioned,  indelicate,  sour,  gloomy, 

Jjockms  medley  of  pedantry  and  lewdness ;  of  metaphy- 

"^  speculations,  blended  with  the  coarsest  sensuality.' " 

I  -«a  WALTia  Scott.] 

I     ^  This  refers  to  the  account  in  his  "  Confessions**  of  his 

I  Misioii  for  the  Ck^mtesse  d'Houdetot,  (the  mistress  of  St. 

'  A^°^^^  *^  ^  ^^^^  walk  every  morning,  for  the  sake  of 

tbe  suigle  kiss  which  was  the  common  salutation  of  French 

*c^iamtance.    Rousseau's  description  of  his  feelings  on 

wBoceaiioQ  may  be  considered  as  the  most  passionate. 

I  f^iMA  impure,  deschi^on  and  expression  of  love  that  ever 

f  ladled  into  words ;  which,  after  all,  must  be  felt,  from 


LXXXIIL 

But  this  will  not  endure,  nor  be  endured ! 
Mankind  have  felt  their  strength,  and  made  it  felt. 
They  might  have  used  it  better,  but,  allured 
By  their  new  vigor,  sternly  have  they  dealt 
On  one  another ;  pity  ceased  to  melt 
With  her  once  natural  charities.     But  they. 
Who  in  oppression's  darkness  caved  had  dwelt> 
They  were  not  eagles,  nourish'd  with  the  day ; 
What  marvel  then,  at  times,  if  they  mistook  their 

prey? 

LXXXIV. 
What  deep  wounds  ever  closed  without  a  scar? 
The  heart's  bleed  longest,  and  but  heal  to  wear 
That  which  disfigures  it ;  and  they  who  war 
With  their  own  hopes,  and  have  been  vanquish'd, 

bear 
Silence,  but  not  submission :  in  his  lair 
Fix'd  Passion  holds  his  breath,  until  the  hour 
Which  shall  atone  fot  ^ears ;  none  need  despair: 
It  came,  it  cometh,  and  will  come, — ^the  power 
To  punish  or  forgive— in  one  we  shall  be  slower. 

LXXXV. 

Clear,  placid  Leman !  thy  contrasted  lake, 
With  the  wild  world  I  dwelt  in,  is  a  thing 
Which  warns  me,  witli  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 
This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction ;  once  I  loved 
Tom  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  Sister's  voice  reproved, 

That  I  with  stem  delights  should  e'er  have  been  so 
moved. 

LXXXVI. 
It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear, 
Mellow'd  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen. 
Save  darken'd  Jura,  whose  capp'd  heights  appear 
Precipitously  steep ;  and  drawing  near, 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the  shore, 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood ;  on  the  ear 
Drops  the  Ught  drip  of  the  suspended  oar, 

Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol  more  ; 

LXXXVII. 

He  is  an  evening  reveller,  who  makes 
His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill ; 
At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  brakes 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 
There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the  hill, 
But  that  is  fancy,  for  the  starlight  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil. 
Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues.' 


their  very  force,  to  be  inadequate  to  the  delineation:  a 
painting  can  give  no  sufficient  idea  of  the  ocean. 

•  ["  Lord  Byron's  character  of  Rousseau  is  drawn  with 
great  force,  great  power  of  discrimination,  and  great  elo- 
quence. I  know  not  that  he  says  any  thing  which  has  not 
been  said  before ;— but  what  be  says  issues,  apparently, 
from  the  recesses  of  his  own  mind.  It  is  a  little  labored, 
which,  possibly,  may  be  caused  by  the  form  of  the  stanza 
into  which  it  was  necessary  to  throw  it ;  but  it  cannot  be 
doubted  that  the  poet  felt  a  sympathy  for  the  enthusiastic 
tenderness  of  Rousseau's  genius,  which  he  could  not  have 
recognised  with  such  extreme  fervor,  except  from  a  con- 
sciousness of  having  at  least  occasionally  experienced  simi- 
lar emotions."— Sia  £.  Baynoxs.] 

*  [During  Lord  Byron's  stay  in  Switzerland,  he  took  up 
his  residence  at  the  Campagne-Diodati,  in  the  village  or 
Coligny.    It  stands  at  the  top  of  a  rapidly  descending  vine- 


48 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  iu. 


LXXXVIIL 

Ye  Stan !  which  are  the  poetry  <if  heayen ! 
If  iu  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read  the  fiUe 
Of  men  and  empires, — 'tie  to  be  forgiyen. 
That  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great, 
Our  destinies  o'erleap  their  mortal  state, 
And  claim  a  kindred  with  you ;  for  ye  are 
A  beauty  and  a  mystery,  and  create 
In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar, 
That  fortune,  fame,  power,  life,  have  named  them- 
selves a  star 

LXXXIX- 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still — though  not  in  sleep. 
But  breathless,  as  we  grow  when  feeling  most ; 
And  silent,  as  we  stand  in  thoughts  too  deep : — 
All  heaven  and  earth  are  still :   From  the  high  host 
Of  stars,  to  the  lull'd  lake  and  mountain-coast. 
All  is  concentred  in  a  life  intense. 
Where  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost. 
But  hath  a  part  of  being,  and  a  sense 
Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and  defence. 

XC. 

Then  stirs  the  feeling  infinite,  so  felt 
In  solitude,  where  we  are  least  alone ; 
A  truth,  which  through  our  being  then  doth  melt. 
And  purifies  ftom  self:  it  is  a  tone. 
The  soul  and  source  of  music,  which  makes  known 
Eternal  harmony,  and  sheds  a  charm. 
Like  to  the  fabled  Cytherea*s  zone. 
Binding  all  thmgs  with  beauty ; — 'twould  disarm 
The  spectre  Death,  had  he  substantial  power  to  hann. 

XCL 

Not  vaiuly  did  the  early  Persian  make 
His  altar  the  high  places  and  the  peak 
Of  earth-o'ergazing  mountains,^  and  thus  take 
A  fit  and  unwallM  temple,  there  to  seek 
The  Spirit,  in  whose  honor  shrines  are  weak, 
Uprear'd  of  human  hands.    Come,  and  compare 
Columns  and  idol-dwellings,  Goth  or  Greek, 
With  Nature's  realms  of  worship,  earth  and  air. 
Nor  fix  on  fond  abodes  to  circumscribe  thy  prayer ! 

XCIL 

The  sky  is  changed ! — and  such  a  change !  Oh  night. 
And  storm,  and  darisness,  ye  are  wonorous  strong. 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  d^rk  eye  in  woman !  Far  along. 


yard ;  the  windows  conunanding,  one  way,  a  noble  view  of 
the  lake  and  of  Geneva;  the  other,  up  the  lake.  Every 
erening,  the  poet  embarked  on  the  lake ;  and  to  the  feel- 
ings created  hj  these  excursions  we  owe  these  delightful 
stanzas.  Of  his  mode  of  passing  a  day,  the  following,  from 
his  Journal,  is  a  pleasant  specimen  :— 

'*  September  16.  Called.  Got  up  at  five.  Stopped  at 
Vevay  two  hoars.  View  from  the  churchyard  superb; 
within  it  Ludlow  (the  regicide's)  monument— black  marble 
—long  inscription,  Latin,  but  simple.  Near  him  Broughton 
(who  read  King  Charles's  sentence  to  Charles  Stuart)  is 
buried,  with  a  queer  and  rather  canting  inscription.  Lud- 
low's house  shown.  Walked  down  to  the  lake  side ;  ser- 
vants, carriages,  saddle-horses,- all  set  off,  and  left  us 
planti*  Idj  by  some  mistake.  Hobhouse  ran  on  before,  and 
overtook  tnem.  Arrived  at  Clarens.  Went  to  Chillon 
through  scenery  worthy  of  I  know  not  whom ;  went  over  the 
castle  agam.  Met  an  English  party  in  a  carriage ;  a  lady  in 
it  fast  asleep— fast  asleep  in  the  most  anti-narcotic  spot  in 
the  world,— excellent !  After  a  slight  and  short  dinner, 
visited  the  Ch&teau  de  Clarens.  Saw  all  worth  seeing,  and 
then  descended  to  the  '  Bosquet  de  Julie,'  &c.,  Ac. :  our 
guide  full  of  Rousseau,  whom  he  is  eternally  confounding 
with  St.  Prcux,  and  mixing  the  man  and  the  book.    Went 


From  peak  to  peak  the  rattling  crags  among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder !  Not  from  oue  lone  cloud* 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue. 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud. 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud ! 

XCIII. 

And  this  is  in  the  night : — Most  glorious  night ! 
Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber !  let  me  be 
A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight, — 
A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee  !* 
How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea. 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth ! 
And  now  again  'tis  black, — and  now,  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain-mirth, 
As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's 
birth.* 

XCIV. 

Now,  where  the  swift  Rhone  cleaves  his  way  between 
Heights  which  appear  as  lovers  who  have  parted 
In  hate,  whose  mining  depths  so  intervene, 
That  they  can  meet  no  more,  though  broken-hearted ; 
Though  in  their  souls,  which  thuseach  other  thwarted. 
Love  was  the  very  root  of  the  fond  rage     [parted : — 
Which  blighted  their  life's  bloom,  and  then  de- 
Itself  expired,  but  leaving  them  an  Tige 
Of  years  all  winters, — ^war  within  themselves  to  wage. 

xcv. 

Now,  where  the  quick  Rhone  thus  hath  cleft  his  way. 
The  mightiest  of  the  storms  hath  ta'en  his  stand : 
For  here,  not  one,  but  many,  make  their  play. 
And  fling  their  thunderbolts  from  hand  to  hand. 
Flashing  and  cast  around :  of  all  the  band. 
The  brightest  through  these  parted  hills  hath  fink'd 
His  Ughtnings,— as  UT  he  did  understand. 
That  in  such  gaps  as  desolation  work'd. 
There  the  hot  ^aft  should  blast  whatever  therein 
lurk'd. 

XCVL 

Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  1  _ 
With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a^i 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 
Things  that  have  made  me  watchful ;  the  far  roll 
Of  your  departing  voices,  is  the  knoll 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless, — if  I  rest* 
But  where  of  ye,  oh  tempests !  is  the  goal  ? 
Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast  ? 
Or  do  ye  find,  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high  nest  ? 


sfain  as  far  as  Chillon,  to  revisit  the  little  torrent  from  the 
hill  behind  it.  The  corporal  who  showed  the  wonders  of 
Chillon  was  as  drunk  as  Blucher.  and  (to  my  mind)  as  great 
a  man :  he  was  deaf  also ;  and,  tninking  every  one  else  so, 
roared  out  the  legends  of  the  castle  so  fearfully,  that  Hob- 
house  got  out  of  humor.  However,  we  saw  things,  from 
the  gallows  to  the  dungeons.  Sunset  reflected  in  the  lake. 
Nine  o'clock— going  to  bed.  Have  to  get  up  at  five  to- 
morrow."] 
1  See  Appendix,  Note  [F.] 

*  The  thunder-storm  to  which  these  lines  refer  occurred 
on  the  13th  of  June,  1816,  at  midnight.  I  have  seen,  among 
the  Acroceraunian  mountains  of  Chimari,  several  more  ter- 
rible, but  none  more  beautiful. 

*  [**  This  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  passages  of  the  poem. 
The  ♦  fierce  and  far  delight'  of  a  thunder-storm  is  here  de- 
scribed in  verse  almost  as  vivid  as  its  lightnings.  The  live 
thunder  '  leaping  among  the  rattling  crags'— the  voice  of 
mountains,  as  if  shouting  to  each  other— the  plashing  of  the 
big  rain— the  gleaming  of  the  wide  lake,  lighted  like  a  phos- 
phoric sea— present  a  picture  of  sublime  terror,  yet  of  en- 
joyment, often  attempted,  but  never  so  well,  certainly  never 
better,  brought  out  in  poetry  "— Sia  WALTsa  Scott.] 

*  [The  Journal  of  his  Swiss  tour,  which  Lord  Byron  kept 


Canto  hi. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


49 


XCVII. 
Could  I  embody  and  unbosom  now 
Thmt  which  is  most  within  me, — could  I  wreak 
My  thooghts  upon  expression,  and  thus  throw 
Soul,  heart,  mind,  passions,  feelings,  strong  or  weak. 
All  that  I  would  have  sought,  and  all  I  seek. 
Bear,  know,  feel,  and  yet  breathe— into  one  word, 
And  that  one  word  were  Lightning,  I  would  apeak. ; 
Bat  as  it  is,  I  live  and  die  unheard. 
With  a  most  voiceless  thought,  sheathing  it  as  a  sword. 

XCVIIL 

The  mom  is  up  again,  the  dewy  mom, 
With  breath  all  incense,  and  with  cheek  all  Uoom, 
Laughing  the  clouds  away  with  playful  scom, 
And  living  as  if  earth  contained  no  tomb, — 
And  glowing  into  day :  we  may  resume 
The  march  of  our  existence :  and  thus  I, 
Sti]l  on  thy  shores,  fair  Leman !  may  find  room 
And  food  for  meditation,  nor  pass  by 
Much,  that  may  give  us  pause,  if  pondered  fittingly. 

XCIX. 

Clarens !  sweet  Clarens,*  birthplace  of  deep  Love ! 
Thine  air  is  the  young  breath  of  passionate  thought ; 
Thy  trees  take  root  in  Love ;  the  snows  above 
The  very  Glaciers  have  his  colors  caught. 
And  sunset  into  rose-hues  sees  them  wrought 
By  rays  which  sleep  there  lovingly :  the  rocks, 
The  permanent  crags,  tell  here  of  Love,  who  sought 
Li  them  a  refuge  from  the  worldly  shocks. 
Which  stir  and  sting  the  soul  with  hope  that  wooe,  then 
mocks. 

C. 
Clarens !  by  heavenly  feet  thy  paths  are  trod,^ 
Undying  Love's,  who  here  ascends  a  throne 
To  which  the  steps  are  mountains ;  where  the  god 
Ifl  a  pervading  Ufe  and  light, — so  shown 
Not  on  those  summits  solely,  nor  alone 
In  the  still  cave  and  forest ;  o*er  the  flower 
His  eye  is  q>arkling,  and  his  breath  hath  blown 
His  soft  and  summer  breath,  whose  tender  power 
Passes  the  strength  of  storms  in  their  most  desolate 
hour.' 

CL 
All  things  are  here  of  him  ;  from  the  black  pines, 
Which  are  his  shade  on  high,  and  the  loud  roar 
Of  torrents,  where  he  listeneth,  to  tlie  vines 
Which  slope  his  green  path  downward  to  the  shore, 
Where  the  bow'a  waters  meet  him,  and  adore, 


km  his  sister,  closes  with  the  following  mour&>il  passage  :— 
'*  In  the  weather,  for  this  tour,  of  thirteen  days,  I  have  oecn 
TCTy  fortunate— fortunate  in  a  companion"  (Mr.  Hobhouse) 
— **  fortunate  in  our  prospects,  and  exempt  from  even  the 
little  petty  accidents  and  delays  which  often  render  journeys 
in  a  less  wild  country  disappointing.  I  was  disposed  to  be 
pleased.  I  am  a  lover  of  nature,  and  an  admirer  of  beauty. 
I  can  bear  fSitigue,  and  welcome  privation,  and  have  seen 
some  of  the  noblest  views  in  the  world.  But  in  all  this,— 
the  recollection  of  bitterness,  and  more  especially  of  recent 
aad  more  home  desolation,  which  must  accompany  me 
through  life,  has  preyed  upon  me  here ;  and  neither  the 
,  music  of  the  shepherd,  the  crashing  of  the  avalanche,  nor  the 
I  torrent,  the  mountain,  the  glacier,  the  forest,  nor  the  cloud, 
have  for  one  moment  lightened  the  weight  upon  my  heart, 
nor  enabled  me  to  lo.se  my  own  wretched  identity,  in  the 
nuje»ty,  ajkl  the  power,  and  the  gloiy  around,  above,  and 
teoeath  me.'*] 

« (Stanzas  xcix.  to  cxv.  are  exquisite.     They  have  every 
llBog  which  niakes  a  poetical  picture  of  local  and  particular 


Kissing  his  feet  with  murmurs ;  and  the  wood. 
The  covert  of  old  trees,  with  trunks  all  hoar. 
But  light  loaves,  youug  as  joy,  stands  where  it  stood, 
Offeriug  to  him,  and  his,  a  populous  solitude — 

cn. 

A  populous  solitude  of  bees  and  birds. 
And  fairy-form'd  and  mauy-color'd  things. 
Who  worship  him  with  notes  more  sweet  than  words, 
Aud  innocently  open  their  glad  wings. 
Fearless  and  full  of  life :  the  gush  of  springs, 
And  fall  of  lofty  fountains,  and  the  bend 
Of  stirring  branches,  and  the  bud  which  brings 
The  swiftest  thought  of  beauty,  here  extend, 
Mingling,  and  made  by  Love,  unto  one  mi^ty  end. 

cin. 

He  who  hath  loved  not,  here  would  learn  that  lore. 
And  make  his  heart  a  spirit ;  he  who  knows 
That  tender  mystery,  will  love  the  more. 
For  this  is  Love's  recess,  where  vain  men's  woes. 
And  the  world's  waste,  have  driven  him  far  fi-om 

those, 
For  'tis  his  nature  to  advance  or  die ; 
He  stands  not  still,  but  or  decays,  or  grows 
Into  a  boundless  blessing,  which  may  vie 
With  the  immortal  lights,  ih  its  eternity  I 

CIV. 

'Twas  not  for  fiction  chose  Rousseau  this  spot. 
Peopling  it  with  aflections ;  but  he  found 
It  was  the  scene  which  passion  must  allot 
To  the  mind^s  purified  beings ;  'twas  the  ground 
Where  early  Love  his  Psyche's  zone  unbound, 
And  hallow'd  it  with  loveliness ;  'tis  lone, 
And  wonderful,  and  deep,  and  hath  a  sound. 
And  sense,  and  sight  of  sweetness ;  here  the  Rhone 
Hath  spread  himself  a  couch,  the  Alps  have  rear'd  a 
throne. 

CV. 

Lausanne !  and  Femey !  ye  have  been  the  abodes 
Of  names  which  unto  you  bequcath'd  a  name  ;* 
Mortals,  who  sought  and  found,  by  dangerous  roads, 
A  path  to  perpetuity  of  fame : 
They  were  gigantic  minds,  and  their  steep  aim 
Was,  Titan-like,  on  daring  doubts  to  pile 
Thoughts  which  should  cidl  down  thunder,  and  the 

flame 
Of  Heaven,  again  assail'd,  if  Heaven  the  while 
On  man  aud  man's  research  could  deign  do  more 

than  smile. 


scenery  perfect.  They  exhibit  a  miraculous  brilliancy  and 
force  of  fancy ;  but  the  very  fidelity  causes  a  little  constraint 
and  labor  of  language.  The  poet  seems  to  have  been  so 
engrossed  by  the  attention  to  give  vigor  and  fire  to  the  im- 
agery, that  he  both  neglected  and  disdained  to  render  him- 
self more  harmonious  by  diffuser  words,  which,  while  they 
might  have  improved  tne  effect  upon  the  ear.  might  have 
weakened  the  impression  upon  the  mind.  This  mastery 
over  new  matter— this  supply  of  powers  equal  not  only  to 
an  untouched  subject,  but  that  subject  one  of  peculiar  and 
unequalled,  grandeur  and  beauty— was  sufficient  to  occupy 
the  strongest  poetical  faculties,  yoimg  as  the  author  was, 
without  adding  to  it  all  the  practical  skill  of  the  artist.  The 
stanzas,  too,  on  Voltaire  and  Gibbon  are  discriminative, 
sagacious,  and  just.  They  are  among  the  proofs  of  that 
very  great  variety  of  talent  which  this  Canto  of  Lord  Byrcn 
exhibits.— Sib  £.  Bktdoks.J 

•  See  Appendix,  Note  [G.) 

>  Voltaire  and  Gibbon. 


50 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  hi. 


CVI. 

The  one  was  fire  and  fickleness,  a  child, 
Most  mutable  in  wishes,  but  in  mind 
A  wit  as  various, — gay,  grave,  sage,  or  wild, — 
Historian,  bard,  philosoplier,  combined ; 
He  multiplied  himself  among  mankind, 
The  Proteus  of  their  talents :  But  his  own 
Breathed  most  in  ridicule, — which,  as  the  wind, 
Blew  where  it  listed,  laying  all  things  prone, — 
Now  to  overthrow  a  fool,  and  now  to  shake  a  throne. 

cvn. 

The  other,  deep  and  slow,  exhausting  thought. 
And  hiving  wisdom  with  each  studious  ^iiear, 
In  meditation  dwelt,  with  learning  wrought, 
And  shaped  his  weapon  with  an  edge  severe, 
Sappmg  a  solemn  creed  with  solemn  sneer ; 
The  lora  of  irony, — ^that  master-spell. 
Which  stnng  his  foes  to  wrath,  which  grew  from  fear. 
And  doom'd  him  to  the  zealot's  ready  Hell, 
Which  answers  to  all  doubts  so  eloquently  weU. 

CVIII. 

Yet,  peace  be  with  their  ashes, — for  by  them. 
If  merited,  the  penalty  is  paid  ; 
It  is  not  ours  to  judge, — ^far  less  condemn ; 
The  hour  must  come  when  such  things  shall  be  made 
Known  unto  all,— or  hq>e  and  dread  allay'd 
By  slumber,  on  one  pillow, — in  the  dust. 
Which,  thus  much  we  are  sure,  most  lie  decajr^d ; 
And  T^en  it  shall  revive,  as  is  our  trust, 
'Twill  be  to  be  forgiven,  or  suffer  what  is  just. 

CIX. 

But  let  me  qoit  man's  works,  agam  to  read 
His  Maker's,  spread  around  me,  and  suspend 
This  page,  which  from  my  reveries  I  feed, 
Until  it  seems  prolonging  without  end. 
The  clouds  above  me  to  the  white  Alps  tend, 
And  I  must  pierce  them,  imd  survey  whatever 
May  be  permitted,  as  my  steps  I  bend 
To  their  most  great  and  growing  region,  where 
The  earth  to  her  embrace  compels  the  powers  of  air. 

ex. 

ItaU  * !  too,  Italia !  looking  on  thee. 
Full  flashes  on  the  soul  the  light  of  ages, 
Since  the  fierce  Carthaginian  almost  won  thee, 
To  the  last  halo  of  the  chiefs  and  sages. 


1  "  II  it  be  thus, 

For  Banquo*8  issue  have  I  fiUd  my  mfnd."— Macbeth. 
•  It  is  said  oy  Rochefoucault,  that  **  there  if  alwasrs  some* 
thing  in  the  nusfortunes  of  men's  best  friends  not  diiq[ilfasing 
to  them.*' 

» ["  It  is  not  the  temper  and  talents  of  the  poet,  but  the 
use  to  which  he  puts  them,  on  which  his  happiness  or  misery 
is  grounded.  A  powerful  and  unbridled  imagination  is  the 
author  and  architect  of  its  own  disappointments.    Itsfasd- 

I  nations,  its  exaggerated  pictures  of  f^ood  and  evil,  and  the 

I  mental  distress  to  which  they  give  nue,  are  the  natural  and 
necessary  evils  attending  on  that  qmck  susceptibility  of 
feeling  and  fancy  incident  to  the  poetical  temperament. 
But  the  Giver  of  all  talents,  while  he  has  qualified  them 
each  with  its  separate  and  peculiar  alloy,  has  endowed  the 
owner  with  the  power  of  purifying  and  refining '.  Jem.  But. 

I  as  if  to  moderate  the  arrogance  of  genius,  it  is  nistly  and 
wisely  made  requisite,  that  he  must  regulate  and  tame  the 

I  fire  or  his  fkncy,  and  descend  from  the  heights  to  which  she 
exalts  him,  in  order  to  obtain  ease  of  mind  and  tranquillity. 
The  materials  of  happiness,  that  is,  of  such  decree  of  hap- 
piness as  is  consistent  with  our  present  state,  he  around  us 
m  profusion.  But  the  man  of  talents  must  stoop  to  gather 
them,  otherwise  they  would  be  beyond  the  reach  of  the 
mass  of  society,  for  whose  benent,  as  well  as  for  his. 
Providence  has  created  theuL    There  is  no  royal  and  no 


Who  glorify  thy  consecrated  pages ; 
Thod  wert  the  throne  and  grave  of  empires ;  still, 
Tlie  fount  at  which  the  panting  mind  assuages 
Her  thirst  of  knowledge,  quaflSng  there  her  fill. 
Flows  from  the  eternal  source  of  dome's  imperial  hill. 

CXI. 
Thus  far  have  I  proceeded  in  a  theme 
Renew'd  with  no  kind  auspices  i — to  feel 
We  are  not  what  we  have  been,  and  to  deem 
We  are  not  what  we  should  be,— and  to  steel 
The  heart  a^nst  itself;  and  to  conceal. 
With  a  proud  caution,  love,  or  hate,  or  augfat,-« 
Passion  or  feelmg,  purpose,  grief,  or  zeal, — 
Which  is  the  tyrant  spirit  of  our  thought, 
Is  a  stran  tadL  of  soul : — No  matter, — it  is  taught 

CXII. 

And  for  these  words,  thus  woven  into  song. 
It  may  be  that  they  are  a  harmless  wile, — 
The  coloring  of  the  scenes  which  fleet  along, 
Which  I  would  seize,  in  passing,  to  beguile 
My  breast,  or  that  of  others,  for  a  while. 
Fame  is  the  thirst  of  youth, — but  I  am  not 
So  young  as  to  regard  men's  frown  or  smile, 
As  lose  or  guerdon  of  a  glorious  lot ; 
I  stood  and  stand  alone^ — ^remember'd  or  forgot 

CXIII. 

I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  worid  me  ; 
I  have  not  flatter'd  its  rank  breath,  nor  bow'd 
To  its  idolatries  a  patient  knee, — 
Nor  coin'd  my  cheek  to  smiles, — ^nor  cried  aloud 
In  worship  of  an  echo ;  in  the  crowd 
They  could  not  deem  me  one  of  such  ;  I  stood 
Among  them,  but  not  of  them ;  in  a  shroud  [could. 
Of  thoughts  which  were  not  their  thoughts,  and  still 
Had  I  not  filed*  my  mmd,  which  thus  itself  subdued. 

CXIV. 
I  have  not  loved  the  worid,  nor  the  world  me, — 
But  let  OS  part  fair  foes ;  I  do  believe, 
Though  I  have  found  them  not,  that  there  may  be 
Words  which  are  things, — ^hopes  which  will  not 

deceive, 
And  virtues  which  are  merciful,  nor  weave 
Snares  for  the  failing:  I  would  also  deem 
O'er  others*  griefs  that  some  sincerely  grieve  ;* 
That  two,  or  one,  are  almost  what  they  seem,^ 
That  goodness  is  no  name,  and  happiness  no  dream.' 

poetical  path  to  contentment  and  heart*s-«ase :  that  by  which 
they  aie  attained  is  open  to  all  classes  of  mankind,  and  lies 
within  the  most  limited  range  of  intellect  To  narrow  our 
wishes  and  desires  within  the  scope  of  our  powers  of  attain- 
ment; to  consider  our  misfortunes,  however  peculiar  in 
their  character,  as  our  inevitable  share  in  the  patrimony  of 
Adam ;  to  bridle  those  irritable  feelings,  which  uugoveroed 
are  sure  to  become  governors ;  to  shun  that  intensity  of 

Slling  and  self-wounding  reflection  which  our  poet  has  so 
rcibly  described  in  his  own  burning  language : — 

•  I  have  thouffht 

Too  long  and  darldy,  till  my  brain  became, 
In  its  own  eddy,  boiling  and  o'erwrought, 
A  whirling  gulf  of  phantasy  and  flame 

—to  stoop,  in  short  to  the  realities  of  life ;  repent  if  we 
have  ofiezkded,  and  pardon  if  we  have  been  trespassed 
against ;  to  look  on  the  world  less  as  our  foe  than  as  a 
doubtful  and  capricious  friend,  whose  applause  we  ought  as 
far  as  possible  to  deserve,  but  neither  to  court  nor  contemn 
—such  seem  the  most  obvious  and  certain  means  of  keep- 
ing or  regaining  mental  tranquillity. 


*  Semita  certe 


Tranquillas  per  virtutem  patet  unica  vitas.* " — 

Sia  Walter  Scott.] 


ClNTO    IV. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


51 


CXV. 

My  daughter !  with  thy  name  this  song  begun — 
My  daughter !  with  thy  name  thus  much  shaU  end- 
I  see  thee  not, — ^I  hear  thee  not, — ^but  none 
Can  be  so  wraj^'d  in  thee ;  thou  art  the  friend 
To  whom  the  shadows  of  far  years  extend : 
Albeit  my  brow  thou  never  shouldst  behold, 
My  voice  shall  with  thy  future  visions  blenid, 
And  reach  into  thy  heart, — ^when  mine  is  cM^ — 
A  token  and  a  tone,  even  from  thy  father's  mould. 

CXVL 
To  aid  thy  mind's  development^ — to  watdi 
Thy  dawn  of  tittle  joys, — to  sit  and  see 
Almost  thy  very  growth,^ — to  view  thee  catch 
Knowledge  of  objects, — ^wonders  yet  to  thee ! 
To  hold  uiee  lightly  on  a  gentle  knee, 
And  print  on  thy  soft  cheek  a  parent's  kissy— 
"Riis,  it  should  seem,  was  not  reserved  for  me ; 
Tet  this  was  in  my  nature : — as  it  is, 
I  know  not  what  is  there,  yet  something  like  to  this. 

CXVIL 

Tet,  though  dull  Hate  as  duty  should  be  taught, 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  love  me ;  though  my  name 
Should  be  shut  from  thee,  as  a  spell  still  fraught 
With  desoIation,^ — and  a  broken  claim :         [same, 
Though  the  grave  closed  between  us, — ^'twere  the 
I  know  that  Uiou  wilt  love  me ;  though  to  drain 
My  Uood  from  out  thy  being  were  an  aim. 
And  an  attainment,— -all  would  be  in  vain, — 
SC31  thou  wouldst  love  me,  still  that  more  than  life 


CXVIIL 

I     Tlie  child  of  lovei — ^though  bom  in  bitterness, 
And  nurtured  in  convulsion.    Of  thy  sire 
lliese  were  the  elements,^ — and  thine  no  less. 
As  yet  sodi  are  around  thee, — but  thy  fire 
Shall  be  more  temper'd,  and  thy  hope  far  higher. 
Sweet  be  thy  cradled  slumbers !   O'er  the  sea, 
And  from  the  mountains  where  I  now  respire, 
Fain  would  I  waft  such  blessing  upon  thee,    [rae !' 
At,  with  a  sigh,  I  deem  thou  migfarst  have  been  to 


CHILDE    HABOLD'S   PILGBIMAOE. 


OANTO  THE  fO0KTH. 


Yisto  ho  Toscana,  Lombardia,  Romagna, 
Quel  Monte  che  divide,  e  quel  che  serra 
Itana,  e  on  mare  e  r  altro,  che  la  baxna. 

Anoflo.^tiraiiL 


TO  JOHN  HOBHOUSE,  ESQ.,  A.M.  FJLa  &o. 


Mt  DKAE  HoBBOUBKr 


FaHef,/aMMry  1,1818. 


AfTta  an  interval  of  eight  years  between  the  com- 
poBtaon  of  the  first  and  last  cantos  of  Childe  Harold, 


M"Byion,July4,I810.    DiodatL"— MS.] 


the  conchision  of  the  poem  is  about  to  be  submitted  I 
to  the  public    In  parting  with  so  old  a  friend,  it  is  i 
not  extraordinary  that  I  mould  recur  to  one  still  older  | 
and  better, — to  one  who  has   beheld  the  birth  and   , 
death  of  the  other,  and  to  whom  I  am  far  more  in-   | 
debted  for  the  social  advantages  of  an   enlightened  | 
friendship,   than — thoudi  not   ungrateful — I  can,  or 
could   be,  to  Childe   Harold,  for   any  public    favor  ! 
reflected   through   the   poem  on  the  poet, — to  one,  1 
whom  I  have   icnown   long,   and   accompanied   far, 
whom  I  have  found  wakeful  over  my  sickness  and 
kind  in  my  sorrow,  glad  in  my  prosperity  and  firm 
in  my  adversity,  true  m  counsel  and  trusty  in  peril, 
— to  a  friend  often  tried  and  never  found  wantmg; 
— to  yourseUl 

In  so  doing,  I  recur  from  fiction  to  truth ;  and  in 
dedicating  to  you,  m  its  complete  or  at  least  concluded 
state,  a  poetical  work  which  is  the  longest,  the  most 
thoughtAil  and  comprehensive  of  my  compositions,  I 
wish  to  do  honor  to  myself  by  the  record  of  many 
years'  intimacy  with  a  man  of  leamiuff,  of  cWeut,  of 
steadiness,  and  of  honor.  It  is  not  for  minds  like 
ours  to  give  or  to  receive  flattery  ;  yet  the  praises  of 
sincerity  have  ever  been  permitted  to  the  voice  of 
friendship ;  and  it  is  not  for  you,  nor  even  for  others, 
but  to  relieve  a  heart  which  has  not  elsewhere,  or 
lately,  been  so  much  accustomed  to  the  encounter 
of  good-wiU  as  to  withstand  the  shock  firmly,  that  I 
thus  attempt  to  commemorate  your  good  qualities, 
or  rather  the  advantages  which  I  have  derived  from 
their  exertk>n.  Even  the  recurrence  of  the  date  of 
this  letter,  the  anniversary  of  the  most  unfortunate 
day  of  my  past  existence,  but  which  cannot  poison 
my  future  while  I  retain  ^e  resource  of  your  friend- 
ship, and  oi  my  own  faculties,  will  henceforth  have  a 
more  agreeable  recollection  for  both,  inasmuch  as  it 
wiU  remind  us  of  this  my  attempt  to  thank  you  for  an 
indefatigable  regard,  such  as  few  men  have  experi- 
enced, and  no  one  could  experience  without  thinking 
better  of  his  species  and  of  himself. 

It  has  been  our  fortune  to  traverse  together,  at 
various  periods,  the  countries  of  chivalry,  history,  and 
fable— Spain,  Greece,  Asia  Minor,  and  Italy;  and 
what  Athens  and  Constantinople  were  to  us  a  few 
years  ago,  Venice  and  Rome  have  been  more  re- 
cently. The  poem  also,  or  the  pilgrim,  or  both,  have 
accompanied  me  frt^m  first  to  last;  and  perhaps  it 
may  be  a  pardonable  vanity  which  induces  me  to  re- 
flect with  complacency  on  a  composition  which  in 
some  degree  connects  me  with  the  spot  where  it  was 
produced,  and  the  objects  it  would  fain  describe ;  and 
however  unworthy  it  may  be  deemed  of  those  magical 
and  memorable  abodes,  however  short  it  may  fall  of 
our  distant  conceptions  and  inmiediate  impressions, 
yet  as  a  mark  of  respect  for  what  is  venerable,  and  of 
feeling  for  what  is  glorious,  it  has  been  to  me  a  source 
of  pleasure  in  the  production,  and  I  part  with  it  with 
a  kind  of  regret,  which  I  hardly  suspected  that  events 
could  have  left  me  for  imaginary  objects. 

With  regard  to  the  conduct  of  the  last  canto,  there 
will  be  found  less  of  the  pilgrim  than  in  any  of  the 
preceding,  and  that  little  sli^tly,  if  at  all,  separated 
from  the  author  speaking  in  his  own  person.  The 
fact  is,  that  I  had  become  weary  of  drawing  a  line 
which  every  one  seemed  determined  not  to  per- 
ceive :  like  the  Chinese  in  Goldsmith's  *<  Citizen  of  the 
Worid,"  whom  nobody  would  believe  to  be  a  Chinese, 
it  was  m  vain  that  I  asserted,  and  unagined  that  I 
had  dmwn,  a  distinction  between  the  author  and  the 
im;  and  the  very  anxiety  to  preserve  this  dif- 


52 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  iv. 


ference,  and  disappointment  at  findings  it  unavailing 
80  far  crushed  my  efibrts  in  the  composition,  that  I 
determined  to  abandon  it  altogether — and  have  done 
80.  The  opinions  which  have  been,  or  may  be,  form- 
ed on  that  subject,  are  now  a  matter  of  indifference ; 
the  work  is  to  depend  on  itself,  and  not  on  the  writer; 
and  the  author,  who  has  no  resources  in  his  own 
mind  beyond  the  reputation,  transient  or  permanent, 
which  is  to  arise  from  his  literary  efibrts,  deserves  the 
fkte  of  authors. 

In  the  course  of  the  following  canto  it  was  my 
mtention,  either  in  the  text  or  in  the  notf«,  to  have 
touched  upon  the  present  state  of  Italian  literature, 
and  peihaps  of  manners.  But  the  text,  within  the 
limits  I  proposed,  I  soon  found  hardly  sufficient  for 
the  labyrinth  of  external  objects,  and  the  consequent 
reflections ;  and  for  the  whole  of  the  notes,  excepting 
a  few  of  the  shortest,  I  am  indebted  to  yourself,  and 
these  were  necessarily  limited  to  the  elucidation  of  the 
text 

It  is  also  a  deUcate,  and  no  very  grateful  task,  to 
dissert  upon  the  literature  and  manners  of  a  nation  so 
dissimilar ;  and  requires  an  attention  and  impartiality 
which  would  mduce  us — though  peihaps  no  inatten- 
tive observers,  nor  igrnorant  of  the  language  or  cus- 
toms of  the  people  amongst  whom  we  have  recently 
abode — to  distrust,  or  at  least  defer  our  judgment, 
and  more  narrowly  examine  our  information.  The 
state  of  literary,  as  well  as  political  party,  appears  to 
run,  or  to  have  run,  so  high,  that  fbr  a  stranger  to 
steer  impartially  between  them  is  next  to  impossible. 
It  ma*-  be  enough,  then,  at  least  for  my  purpose,  to 
quote  from  their  own  beautiful  language — **  Mi  pare 
che  in  un  paese  tutto  poetico,  che  vanta  la  lingua 
la  pitt  nobile  ed  insieme  la  pid  dolce,  tutte  tutte  le 
vie  diverse  si  possono  tentare,  e  che  sinche  la  patria 
di  Alfieri  e  di  Monti  non  ha  perduto  V  antico  valore, 
in  tutte  essa  dovrebbe  essere  la  prima."  Italy  has 
great  names  still — Canova,  Monii,  Ugo  Foscolo,  Pin- 
demonte,  Visconti,  Morelli,  Cicognara,  Albrizzi,  Mez- 
zophanti,  Mai,  Mustoxidi,  Aglietti,  and  Vacca,  will 
secure  to  the  present  generation  an  honorable  place 
in  most  of  the  departments  of  Art,  Science,  and 
Belles  Lettres;  and  in  some  the  very  highest — 
Europe — ^the  World — has  but  one  Canova. 

It  has  been  somewhere  said  by  Alfieri,  that  "  La 
pianta  uomo  nasce  pid  robusta  in  Italia  che  in  qua- 
lunque  altra  terra— e  che  gli  stessi  atroci  delitti  che 
vi  si  commettono  ue  sono  una  prova.*'  Without  sub- 
scribing to  the  latter  part  of  his  proposition,  a  dan- 
gerous doctrine,  the  truth  of  which  may  be  disputed 
on  better  grounds,  namely,  that  the  Italians  are  in 
no  respect  more  ferocious  than  their  neighbors,  that 
man  must  be  wilfully  blind,  or  ignorantly  heedless, 
who  is  not  struck  with  the  extraordinary  capacity  of 
this  people,  or,  if  such  a  word  bo  admissible,  their 
capahilities,  the  facility  of  their  acquisitions,  the  ra- 
pidity of  their  conceptions,  the  fire  of  their  genius, 
their  sense  of  beauty,  and,  amidst  all  the  disadvan- 
tages of  repeated  revolutions,  the  desolation  of  battles, 
and  the  denpair  of  ages,  their  still  unquenched  "  long- 
ing after  immortality," — the  immortality  of  inde- 
pendence. And  when  we  ourselves,  in  riding  round 
the  walls  of  Rome,  heard  the  simple  lament  of  the 
laborers*  chorus,  *<Roma!  Roma!  Roma!  Roma  non 


1  See  Appendix,  "  Historical  Notes,*'  No.  i. 

s  SabeUicus,  describing  the  appearance  of  Venice,  has 
made  use  of  ^he  above  image,  wtuch  would  not  be  poetical 
were  it  not  tiiie.— **  Quo  fit  ut  qui  supeme  uibem  contem- 


6  piti  come  era  prima,"  it  was  difficult  not  to  contrait 
this  melancholy  dirge  with  the  bacchanal  roar  of 
the  songs  of  exultation  still  yelled  from  tlie  London 
taverns,  over  the  carnage  of  Mont  St  Jean,  and  the 
betrayal  of  Genoa,  of  Italy,  of  France,  and  of  the 
worid,  by  men  whose  conduct  you  yourself  have  ex- 
posed in  a  wortL  worthy  of  the  better  days  of  our  his- 
tory.   For  me, — 

"  Non  movero  mai  corda 
Ove  la  turba  di  sue  ciance  assorda." 

What  Italy  has  gamed  by  the  late  transfer  of  na- 
tions, it  were  useless  for  Englishmen  to  inquire,  till  it 
becomes  ascertained  that  England  has  acquired  some- 
thing more  than  a  permanent  army  and  a  suspended 
Habeas  Corpus;  it  is  enough  for  them  to  look  at 
home.  For  what  they  have  done  abroad,  and  es- 
pecially in  the  South,  "  Verily  they  will  have  their 
reward,"  and  at  no  very  distant  period. 

Wish*..g  you,  my  dear  Hobhouse,  a  safe  and  agree- 
able return  to  that  country  whose  real  welfare  can  be 
dearer  to  none  than  to  yourself,  I  dedicate  to  you  this 
poem  in  its  completed  state;  and  repeat  once  more 
how  truly  I  am  ever, 

Your  obliged 

And  affisctionate  friend, 

BYRON 


L 
I  vrooD  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs ; 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand  :* 
I  saw  from  out  the  wave  her  structures  rise 
As  from  the  stroke  of  the  enchanter's  wand : 
A  thousand  years  their  cloudy  wings  expand 
Around  me,  and  a  dying  Glory  smiles 
Cer  the  far  times,  when  many  a  subject  land 
Look'd  to  the  winged  Lion's  marble  piles,      [isles ! 
Where  Venice  sate  m  state,  throned  on  her  hundred 

II. 

She  looks  a  sea  Cybele,  fresh  from  or^an,' 
Rising  with  her  tiara  of  proud  towers 
At  airy  distance,  with  majestic  motion, 
A  ruler  of  the  waters  and  their  powers : 
And  such  she  was ; — her  dauglitera  had  their  dowen 
From  spoils  of  nations,  and  £e  exliaustless  Elast 
Pour'd  in  her  lap  all  gems  in  sparkling  showers. 
In  purple  was  she  robed,  and  of  her  feast 
Monarchs  partook,  and  deem*d  their  dignity  increased. 

in. 

In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more,' 
And  silent  rows  the  songless  gondolier;  ' 
Her  palaces  are  crumblmg  to  the  shore. 
And  music  meets  not  always  now  the  ear: 
Those  days  are  gon&— but  Beauty  still  is  here. 
States  fall,  arts  fade — ^but  Nature  doth  not  die. 
Nor  yet  forget  how  Venice  once  was  dear, 
The  pleasant  place  of  all  festivity. 
The  revel  of  the  earth,  the  masque  of  Italy ! 


pletuT,  turritam  telluris  imaginem  medio  Oceano  flguraim 
se  putet  inspicere." 
*  See  Appendix,  "  Historical  Notes,**  No.  ii. 


Canto  iv. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


53  I 


IV. 

Bat  unto  iu  she  hath  a  spell  beyond 
Her  name  m  story,  and  her  long  array 
Of  mighty  shadows,  whose  dim  forms  despond 
Abore  the  dogelees  city's  vanished  sway ; 
Can  is  a  trophy  which  will  not  decay 
With  the  Rialto ;  Shylock  and  the  Moor, 
And  Herre,  cannot  be  swept  or  worn  away-~ 
The  keystones  of  the  arch  !  though  all  were  o'er, 
Far  us  repeopled  were  the  solitary  &ore. 


TTie  beings  of  the  mind  are  not  of  clay ; 
Easentially  immortal,  they  create 
And  multiply  in  us  a  brighter  ray 
And  more  beloved  existence :  that  which  Fate 
Prohibits  to  dull  life,  in  this  our  state 
Of  mortal  bondage,  by  these  spirits  supplied, 
Rrrt  exiles,  then  replaces  what  we  hate  ; 
Watering  the  heart  whose  early  flowers  have  died, 
And  with  a  fresher  growtli  replenishing  the  void. 

VI. 

Snob  is  the  refuge  of  our  youth  and  age, 
The  first  from  Hope,  the  last  from  Vacancy ; 
And  this  worn  feeling  peoples  many  a  page, 
And,  may  be,  that  which  grows  beneath  mine  eye ; 
I     Yet  there  are  things  whose  strong  reality 
Ontshiues  our  fairy -land ;  iu  shape  and  hues 
More  beautiful  than  our  fantastic  sky. 
And  the  strange  constellations  which  the  Muse 
O'er  her  wild  universe  is  skilful  to  diffuse : 

VII. 

I  saw  or  dream'd  of  such, — ^but  let  them  go, — 
They  came  like  truth,  and  disappear'd  like  dreams ; 
I     And  whatsoeVr  they  were — are  now  but  so : 
,     I  could  replace  them  if  I  would ;  still  teems 
My  mind  with  many  a  form  which  aptly  seems 
Such  as  I  sought  for,  and  at  moments  found ; 
Let  these  too  go — for  waking  Reason  deems 
Sach  over-weening  phantasies  unsound, 
Aa?  *her  voices  speak,  and  other  sights  surround. 

VIIL 

Fve  taught  me  other  tongues — and  in  strange  eyes 
Have  made  me  not  a  stranger ;  to  the  mind 
Which  is  itself,  no  changes  bring  surprise ; 
Nor  is  it  harsh  to  make,  uor  hard  to  find 
A  country  with — ay,  or  without  mankind ; 
Yet  was  I  boru  where  men  are  proud  to  be, 
^'ot  without  causo  ;  and  should  I  leave  behind 
The  iuviolate  island  of  the  sage  imd  free, 
And  seek  me  out  a  home  by  a  remoter  sea, 

IX. 

Perhaps  I  loved  it  well :  and  should  I  lay 
My  ii»hes  in  a  soil  which  is  not  mine, 
M)  -ipiril  shall  resume  it — if  we  may 
Unbodied  choose  a  sanctuary.     I  twine 
My  liojjes  of  being  remember*d  in  my  line 
Wdh  my  land's  language :  if  too  foud  and  far 
rhese  attpiratious  in  their  scope  incline, — 
If  my  fame  should  be,  as  my  fortunes  are, 
Of  hafity  growth  and  blight,  and  dull  Oblivion  bar 


'  The  answer  of  the  mother  of  BrasidaSj  the  Lacedsemo- 
Aitn  general,  to  the  strangers  who  praised  the  memory  of 
bttfon. 

'f ',  S  »  See  Appendix,  "  Historical  Notes,**  Nos.  iii.  it. 


My  name  from  out  the  temple  where  the  dead 
Are  honor'd  by  the  nations — ^let  it  be — 
And  light  the  laurels  on  a  loftier  head  I 
And  be  the  Spartan's  epitaph  on  me — 
"  Sparta  hath  many  a  wortliier  son  than  he,"* 
Meantime  I  seek  no  sympathies,  nor  need ; 
The  thorns  which  I  have  reap'd  are  of  the  tree 
I  planted, — they  have  torn  me, — and  I  bleed : 
I  should  have  known  what  fruit  would  spring  fron^ 
such  a  seed. 

XI. 

The  spouseless  Adriatic  mourns  her  lord ; 
And,  annual  marriage  now  no  more  renew'd. 
The  Bucentaur  lies  rotting  unrestored, 
Neglected  garment  of  her  widowhood ! 
St  Marie  yet  sees  his  lion  where  he  stood^ 
Stand,  but  in  mockery  of  his  wither'd  power. 
Over  the  proud  Place  where  an  Emperor  sued. 
And  raonarchs  gazed  and  envied  m  the  hour 
When  Venice  was  a  queen  with  an  unequall'd  dowtr 

XII. 

The  Suabian  sued,  and  now  the  Austrian  reigns—'   I 
An  Emperor  tramples  where  an  Emperor  knelt ; 
Kingdoms  are  shrunk  to  provinces,  and  chains 
Clank  over  sceptred  cities ;  nations  melt 
From  power's  high  pinnacle,  when  they  have  felt 
The  sunshine  for  a  while,  and  downward  go 
Like  lauwuio  loosen'd  from  the  mounta4»^  s  belt ; 
Oh  for  one  hour  of  blind  old  Dandolo  !* 
Th'  octogenarian  chief,  Byzantium's  conquering  foe. 

XIII. 

Before  St.  Mark  still  glow  his  steeds  of  brass. 
Their  gilded  collars  glittering  in  the  sun ; 
But  is  not  Doria's  menace  come  to  pass?* 
Are  they  not  bridled  ! — Venice,  lost  and  won. 
Her  thirteen  hundred  years  of  freedom  done,  , 

Sinks,  like  a  sea- weed,  into  whence  she  rose  ! 
Better  be  whelm'd  beneath  the  waves,  and  shun, 
Even  in  destruction's  depth,  her  foreign  foes,  j 

From  whom  submission  wrings  an  infamous  repose. 

XIV. 

In  youth  she  was  all  glory, — a  new  Tyre, — 
Her  very  by-word  sprung  from  victory, 
The  "  Planter  of  the  lion,"*  which  through  fire 
And  blood  she  bore  o'er  subject  earth  and  sea ; 
Though  making  many  slaves,  herself  still  free. 
And  Europe's  bulwark  'gainst  tlie  Ottoniite  ; 
Witness  Troy's  rival,  Candia !  Vouch  it,  y  ^ 
Immortal  waves  that  saw  Lepanto's  fight ! 
For  ye  are  names  no  time  nor  tyranny  can  blight 

XV. 

Statues  of  glass — all  6hiver*d — ^the  long  file 
Of  her  dead  Doges  are  declined  to  dust ;  I 

But  where  they  dwelt,  the  vast  and  sumptuous  pile  | 
Bespeaks  the  pageant  of  their  splendid  trust ; 
Their  sceptre  broken,  and  their  sword  in  rust. 
Have  yielded  to  the  stranger :  empty  halls. 
Thin  streets,  and  foreign  aspects,  such  as  must 
Too  oft  remind  her  who  and  what  intlirals,^ 
Have  flung  a  desolate  cloud  o'er  Venice*  lovely  walls. 


•  That  is,  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark,  the  standard  of  the  re- 

f>ublic,  which  is  the  origin  of  the  word  Pantaloon— Pianta- 
eone,  Pantaleon,  Pantaloon. 
T  See  Appendix,  "  Historical  Notes,**  No.  vii. 


54 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto    t. 


XVI. 
When  Atliens'  annies  feU  at  Syracuse, 
And  fetter'd  thousands  bore  the  yoke  of  war, 
Redemption  rose  up  in  the  Attic  Muse,* 
Her  voice  their  only  ransom  from  afar : 
See !  as  they  chant  the  tragic  hymn,  the  car 
Of  the  overmastered  victor  stops,  the  reins 
Fall  from  his  hands — his  idle  scimitar 
Starts  ftom  its  belt — he  rends  his  captive's  chains, 
And  bids  him  thank  the  bard  for  freedom  and  his 
strains. 

XVII. 

Thus,  Venice,  if  no  stronger  claim  were  thine, 
Were  all  thy  proud  historic  deeds  forgot. 
Thy  choral  memory  of  the  Bard  divine, 
Thy  love  of  Tasso,  should  have  cut  the  knot 
Which  ties  thee  to  thy  tyrants ;  and  thy  lot 
Is  shameful  to  the  nations, — most  of  all, 
Albion !  to  thee :  the  Ocean  queen  should  not 
Abandon  Ocean's  children ;  in  the  fall 
Of  Venice  think  of  thine,  despite  thy  watery  wall. 

xvin. 

I  loved  her  from  my  boyhood— «he  to  me 
Was  as  a  fairy  city  of  the  heart. 
Rising  like  water-columns  from  the  sea, 
Of  joy  the  sojourn,  and  of  wealth  the  mart ; 
And  Otway,  Radcliffe,  Schiller,  Shakspeare's  art,* 
Had  stamp'd  her  image  in  me,  and  even  so. 
Although  I  found  her  thus,  we  did  not  part, 
Perchance  even  dearer  in  her  day  of  wo. 
Than  when  she  was  a  boast,  a  marvel,  and  a  show. 

XIX. 

I  can  repeople  with  the  past — and  of 

The  present  there  is  still  for  eye  and  thought, 

Aud  meditation  chasten'd  down,  enough ; 

And  more,  it  may  be,  than  I  hoped  or  sought ; 

And  of  the  happiest  moments  which  were  wrought 

Within  the  web  of  my  existence,  some 

From  thee,  fair  Venice !  have  their  colots  caught: 

There  are  some  feelings  Time  can  not  benumb. 

Nor  Torture  shake,  or  mine  would  now  be  cold  and 
dumb. 

XX. 
But  from  their  naturo  will  the  tannen  grow* 
Loftiest  on  loftiest  and  least  sheltered  rocks. 
Rooted  in  barrenness,  where  naught  below 
Of  soil  supports  them  *gainst  the  Alpine  shocks 
"^f  eddying  storms ;  yet  springs  the  trunk,  and  mocks 
The  howling  tempest,  till  its  height  and  frame 
Are  worthy  of  the  mountains  from  whose  Mocks 
Of  bleak,  gray  granite,  into  life  it  came. 

And  grew  a  giant  tree ; — the  mind  may  grow  the  same. 

XXI 

Existence  may  be  borne,  and  the  deep  root 
Of  life  and  sufferance  make  its  firm  abode 
In  bare  and  desolated  bosoms :  mute 
The  camel  labors  with  the  heaviest  load. 
And  the  wolf  dies  in  silence, — not  bestowed 


1  The  storv  is  told  in  Plutarch's  Life  of  Nicias. 

9  Venice  Preserved ;  Mysteries  of  Udolpho ;  the  Ghost- 
Seer,  or  Armeoian :  the  Merchant  of  Venice ;  Othello. 

'  Tannen  ia  the  plural  of  (oime,  a  species  of  fir  peculiar  to 
the  Alps,  which  only  thrives  in  very  rocky  purts.  where 
scjircely  soil  sufficient  for  its  nourishment  can  be  found. 
Oq  these  spots  it  grows  to  a  greater  hei^t  than  any  other 
mountain  tree. 


In  vam  should  such  example  be ;  if  they. 
Things  of  ignoble  or  of  savage  mood, 
Endure  and  shrink  not,  we  of  nobler  clay 
May  temper  it  to  bear, — it  is  but  for  a  day. 

XXIL 

All  suffering  doth  destroy,  or  is  destroyed, 
Even  by  the  sufferer ;  and,  in  each  event, 
Ends  :---Some,  with  hope  replenished  and  rebuoy'd. 
Return  to  whence  they  came — with  like  intent. 
And  weave  their  web  again ;  some,  bow'd  and  bent. 
Wax  gray  and  ghastly,  withering  ere  their  time. 
And  perish  with  the  reed  on  which  they  leant ; 
Some  seek  devotion,  toil,  war,  good  or  crime. 
According  as  their  souls  were  form'd  to  sink  or  climb. 

XXIIL 

But  ever  and  anon  of  griefs  subdued 
There  comes  a  token  like  a  scorpion's  sting. 
Scarce  seen,  but  with  fresh  bitterness  imbued ; 
And  slight  withal  may  be  the  things  which  bring 
Back  on  the  heart  the  weight  which  it  would  flmg 
Aside  forever :  it  may  be  a  sound — 
A  tone  of  music — summer's  eve — or  spring — 
A  flower — the  wind — ^the  ocean — which  shall  wound, 
Striking  the  electric  chain  wherewith  we  are  darkly 
bound; 

XXIV. 

And  how  and  why  we  know  not,  nor  can  trace 
Home  to  its  cloud  this  lightning  of  the  mind. 
But  feel  the  shock  renewed,  nor  can  eflSice 
The  blight  and  blackening  which  it  leaves  behiiid» 
Which  out  of  thing*  famiUar,  undesigned. 
When  least  we  deem  of  such,  calls  up  to  view 
The  spectres  whom  no  exorcism  can  bind. 
The  cold — ^the  changed — perchance  the    dead — 
anew,  [how  few ! 

The  moum'd,  the  loved,  the  lost — ^too  many! — ^yet 

XXV. 

But  my  soul  wandere ;  I  demand  it  back 
To  meditate  amongst  decay,  and  stand 
A  ruin  amidst  ruins ;  there  to  track 
Fall'n  states  and  buried  greatness,  o'er  a  land 
Which  wtu  the  mightiest  in  *ts  old  command. 
And  is  the  loveliest,  and  must  ever  be 
The  master-mould  of  Nature's  heavenly  hand, 
Wherein  were  cast  the  heroic  and  the  free. 
The  beautiful,  the  brave— the  lords  of  earth  and  sea. 

XXVL 

The  commonwealth  of  kings,  the  men  of  Rome ! 
And  even  since,  and  now,  fair  Italy ! 
Thou  art  the  garden  of  the  world,  the  home 
Of  all  Art  yields,  and  Nature^  can  decree ; 
Even  in  thy  desert,  what  is  like  to  thee  7 
Thy  very  weeds  are  beautiful,  thy  waste 
More  rich  than  other  climes'  fertility ; 
Thy  wreck  a  dory,  and  thy  ruin  graced 
With  an  inmiaciSate  charm  which  cannot  be  defaced. 


*  [The  whole  of  this  canto  is  rich  in  description  of  Nature 
The  love  of  Nature  now  appears  as  a  distinct  passion  in  Lord 
Byron's  mind.  It  is  a  love  that  does  not  rent  in  beholding, 
nor  is  satisfied  with  describing,  what  is  before  him.  It  has  a 
power  and  being,  blending  it^lf  with  the  pool's  very  life. 
Though  Lord  Byron  had,  with  his  real  eyes,  perhaps,  seen 
more  of  Nature  than  ever  was  before  permittea  to  any  great 
poet,  yet  he  never  before  seemed  to  open  his  whole  heart  to 


Canto  jv. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


55 


XXVII. 

Hie  moon  is  up,  and  yet  it  b  not  night — 
Stmset  divides  the  sky  with  her — a  sea 
Of  glory  streams  along  the  Alpine  height 
Of  Une  Friuli's  mountains ;  Heaven  is  free 
From  clouds,  but  of  all  colors  seems  to  be 
Melted  to  one  vast  Iris  of  the  West, 
Where  the  Day  joins  the  past  Eternity ; 
While,  on  the  other  hand,  meek  Dian's  crest 
Floats  through  the  azure  air — an  island  of  the  blest !' 

XXVIII. 

A  single  star  is  at  her  side,  and  reigns 
With  her  o'er  half  the  lovely  heaven  ;  but  still* 
Yon  sunny  sea  heave^  brightly,  and  remains 
RoU'd  o'er  the  peak  of  the  far  Rhaetian  hill. 
As  Day  and  Nisht  contending  were,  until 
Nature  reclaim'!  her  order: — gently  flows 
The  deep-dyed  Brenta,  where  their  hues  instil 
The  odorous  purple  of  a  new-bom  rose. 

Which  streams  upon  her  stream,  and  glass'd  within  it 
glows, 

XXIX. 
Fni'd  with  the  face  of  heaven,  which,  fh>m  afar, 
Comes  down  upon  the  waters ;  all  its  hues, 
From  the  rich  sunset  to  the  rising  star, 
Hieir  magical  variety  dlfiuse : 
And  now  they  change ;  a  paler  shadow  strews 
Its  mantle  o'er  the  mountains ;  parting  day 
Dies  like  the  dolphin,  whom  each  pang  unbues 
With  a  new  color  as  it  gasps  away, 

Tlie  last  still  loveliest,  ti!l---'tts  gone— <ind  all  is  gray. 

XXX. 

TTiere  is  a  tomb  in  Arqna ; — rear'd  in  air, 
Pillar'd  in  their  sarcophagus,  repose 
"Hie  bones  of  Laura's  lover :  here  repair 
Many  familiar  with  his  well-sung  woes. 
The  pilgrims  of  his  genius.     He  arose 
To  raise  a  language,  and  his  land  reclaim 
From  the  dull  yoke  of  her  barbaric  foes : 
Watering  the  tree  which  bears  his  lady's  name' 
With  his  melodious  tean,  he  gave  himself  to  fame. 

XXXI. 

They  keep  his  dust  m  Arqua,  where  he  died ;' 
Tlie  mountain-village  where  his  latter  days 
Went  down  the  vale  of  yearn ;  and  'tis  their  pride— 
An  honest  pride— and  let  it  be  their  praise. 
To  offer  to  the  paasing  stranger's  gaze 
His  mansion  and  his  sepulchre ;  Iwth  plain 
And  venerably  simple,  such  as  raise 
A  feeling  more  accordant  with  his  strain 
llian  if  a  pyramid  form'd  his  monumental  fane. 


bo  geni^impolses.  Bat  in  this  he  is  changed ;  and  in  this 
Ctnto  of  *Childe  Harold,  he  will  stand  a  comparison  with 
the  best  descriptive  poets,  in  this  age  of  descriptive  poetry. 

— WlUOH.] 

1  The  above  description  may  seem  fantastical  or  exagger- 
*Ud  to  those  who  have  never  seen  an  Oriental  or  an  Italian 
wf,  yet  It  is  but  a  literal  and  hardly  sufficient  delineation  of 
tt  August  evening,  (the  eighteenth,)  as  contemplated  in  one 
of  many  rides  along  the  banks  of  the  Drenta.  near  La  Mira. 

S'See  Appendix,  "Historical  Notes,"  Noe.  viii.  and 

IX. 

•  ["Half  way  up 

He  built  hi»  house,  whence  as  by  stealth  he  caught, 
Among  the  hills,  a  glimpse  of  busy  life 
That  sooth'd,  not  stirr'd."— Rooxas.] 

*  The  struggle  is  to  the  full  as  likely  to  be  with  demons 
•s  with  our  better  thoughts.  Satan  chose  the  wilderness 
■r  the  temptation  of  our  Saviour.    And  our  unsullied 


XXXII. 

And  the  soft  quiet  hamlet  where  he  dwelt* 
Is  one  of  that  complexion  which  seems  mac 
For  those  who  their  mortality  have  felt. 
And  sought  a  refuge  from  their  hopes  decay'd 
In  the  deep  umbrage  of  a  green  hill's  shade. 
Which  shows  a  distant  prospect  far  away 
Of  busy  cities,  now  in  vain  display'd. 
For  they  can  lure  no  further ;  and  the  ray 
Of  a  bright  stm  can  make  sufficient  hoUday, 

XXXIII. 

Developing  the  mountains,  leaves,  and  flowers. 
And  shining  in  the  brawUng  brook,  where-by. 
Clear  as  its  current,  glide  the  sauntering  hours 
With  a  calm  languor,  which,  though  to  the  eye 
Idlesse  it  seem,  hath  its  morality. 
If  from  society  we  learn  to  live, 
'Tis  solitude  should  teach  us  how  to  die  ; 
It  hath  no  flatterers ;  vanity  can  give 
No  hollow  aid ;  alone — man  with  his  God  must  strive : 

XXXIV. 

Or,  it  may  be,  with  demons,  who  impair* 
The  strength  of  better  thoughts,  and  seek  their  prey 
In  melancholy  bosoms,  such  as  were 
Of  moody  texture  from  their  earliest  day. 
And  loved  to  dwell  in  darkness  and  dismay, 
Deeming  tliemselves  predestined  to  a  doom 
Wliich  is  not  of  the  pangs  that  pass  away  ; 
Making  the  sun  like  blo^,  the  earth  a  tomb, 
The  tomb  a  hell,  and  hell  itself  a  murkier  gloom. 

XXXV. 

Ferrara  !•  in  thy  wide  and  grass-grown  streets, 
Whose  sjTnmetry  was  not  for  solitude, 
There  seems  as  'twere  a  curse  upon  the  seats 
Of  fbrmer  sovereigns,  and  the  antique  brood 
Of  Este,  which  for  many  an  age  made  good 
Its  strength  within  thy  walls,  and  was  of  yore 
Patron  or  tyrant,  as  the  changing  mood 
Of  petty  power  impell'd,  of  those  who  wore 
The  wreath  which  Dante's  brow  alone  had  worn  before. 

XXXVI. 

And  Tasso  is  their  ghry  and  their  shame. 
Hark  to  his  strain  !  and  then  survey  his  cell ! 
And  see  how  dearly  eani'd  Torquato'fi  fame, 
And  where  Alfonso  bade  his  poet  dwell : 
The  miserable  de«pot  could  not  quell 
The  insulted  mind  he  sought  to  quench,  and  blend 
With  the  surrounding  maniacs,  in  the  hell 
Where  he  had  plunged  it.     Glorj'  without  end 
Scattered  the  clouds  away — and  on  that  name  attend 

John  Locke  preferred  the  presence  of  a  child  to  complete 
solitude. 

•  [In  April,  1 817,  Lord  Byron  visited  Ferrara,  went  over  the 
castle,  cell,  Ac,  and  wrote,  a  few  days  after,  the  Lament  of 
Tasso.—"  One  of  the  Ferrarese  asked  me,"  he  says,  in  a  letter 
to  a  friend,  "  if  I  knew '  Lord  Byron,'  an  acquaintance  of  his, 
now  at  Naples.  I  told  him '  No !'  which  was  true  both  ways, 
for  I  knew  not  the  impostor;  and,  in  the  other,  no  one 
knows  himself.  He  stared,  when  told  that  I  was  the  real 
Simon  Pure.  Another  asked  me,  if  I  had  not  translated 
Tasso.  You  see  what  Fame  is  I  how  accurate  I  how  bound- 
less !  I  don't  know  how  others  feel,  but  J  am  always  the 
lighter  and  the  better  looked  on  when  I  have  got  rid  of  mine. 
It  sits  on  me  like  armor  on  the  lord  Mayor's  champion  ; 
and  I  got  rid  of  all  the  husk  of  literature,  and  the  attendant 
babble,  by  answering  that  I  had  not  translated  Tasso,  but  a 
namesake  had ;  and,  by  the  blessing  of  Heaven,  I  looked  so 
little  like  a  poet,  that  everybody  believed  me."] 


56 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


Canto  iv. 


XXXVII. 

The  tears  and  praises  of  all  time ;  while  thine 
Would  rot  in  its  oblivion — ^in  the  sink 
Of  worthless  dust,  which  firom  thy  boasted  line 
Is  shaken  into  nothing ;  but  the  link 
Thou  formest  in  his  fortunes  bids  us  think 
Of  thy  poor  malice,  naming  thee  with  scorn — 
Alfonso !  how  thy  ducal  pageants  shrink 
From  tliee !  if  in  another  station  born, 
S<!arce  fit  to  be  the  slave  of  him  thou  mad'st  to  mourn : 

XXXVIII. 

Thou  !  formM  to  eat,  and  be  despised,  and  die, 
Even  as  the  beasts  that  perish,  save  that  thou 
Hadst  a  more  splendid  trough  and  wider  sty : 
He  f  witli  a  glory  round  his  furrow'd  brow, 
Which  emanated  then,  and  dazzles  now, 
In  face  of  all  his  foes,  the  Cruscan  quire. 
And  Boileau,  whose  rash  envy  could  allow' 
No  strain  which  shamed  his  country's  croaking  lyre, 
That  whetstone  of  the  teeth — monotony  in  wire ! 

XXXIX. 

Peace  to  Torquato's  injured  shade !  *twas  his 

In  life  and  death  to  be  the  mark  where  Wrong 

AimM  with  her  poison'd  arrows ;  but  to  miss. 

Oh,  victor  unsurpassed  in  modem  song  I 

Each  year  brings  forth  its  millions ;  but  how  long 

The  tide  of  generations  shall  roll  on. 

And  not  the  whole  combined  and  countless  throng 

Compose  a  mind  like  thine  ?  though  all  in  one 

Condensed  their  scatter'd  rays,  they  would  not  form  a 
sun. 

XL. 
Great  as  thou  art,  yet  parallel'd  by  those, 
Thy  countrymen,  before  thee  bom  to  shine. 
The  Bards  of  Hell  and  Chivalry :  first  rose 
The  Tuscan  father's  comedy  divine  ; 
Tlien,  not  unequal  to  the  Florentine, 
The  southern  Scott,'  the  minstrel  who  call'd  forth 
A  new  creation  with  his  magic  line, 
And,  like  the  Ariosto  of  the  North,' 

Sang  ladye-love  and  war,  romance  and  knightly  worth. 

XLI. 

The  lightning  rent  from  Ariosto's  bust* 

The  iron  crown  of  laurel's  mimickM  leaves ; 

Nor  was  the  ominous  element  unjust, 

For  the  tme  laurel-wreath  which  Glory  weaves 


»  See  Appendix,  "  Historical  Note?,"  No.  x. 

a  [*•  Scott,"  says  Lord  Byron,  in  his  MS.  Diary,  for  1821, »'  is 
certainly  the  most  wonderful  writer  of  the  day.  His  novels 
»re  a  new  literature  in  themselves,  and  his  poetry  as  good  as 
any— if  not  better,  (only  on  an  erroneous  system,)— and  only 
ceased  to  be  so  popular,  because  the  vulgar  were  tired  of 
hearing  ♦  Aristides  called  the  Just,'  and  Scott  the  Best,  and 
ostracised  him.  I  know  no  readmg  to  which  I  fall  with  such 
alacrity  as  a  work  of  his.  I  love  him,  too,  for  his  manliness 
of  character,  for  the  extreme  pleasantness  of  his  conversa- 
tion, and  his  good-nature  towards  myself  personally.  May 
ne  prosper !  for  he  deserves  it."  In  a  letter,  written  to  Sir 
Walter,  from  Pisa,  in  1822,  he  says—*'  I  owe  to  you  far  more 
than  the  usual  obligation  for  the  courtesies  of  literature  and 
common  friendship ;  for  you  went  out  of  your  way,  in  1817, 
to  do  me  a  service,  when  it  required  not  merely  kindness, 
but  courage,  to  do  so ;  to  have  been  recorded  by  you  in  such 
a  manner,  would  have  been  a  oroud  memorial  at  any  time : 
but  at  such  a  time,  when  '  All  ine  world  and  his  wife,'  as  the 
proverb  goes,  were  trying  to  trample  upon  me,  was  some- 
thmg  stifi  higher  to  my  self-esteem.  Had  it  been  a  common 
criticism,  however  eloquent  or  panegyrical.  I  should  have 
felt  pleas£d  and'  grateful,  but  not  to  the  extent  which  the 
extraordinary  good-heartedness  of  the  whole  proceeding 
must  induce  in  any  mind  capable  of  such  sensations."] 


Is  of  the  tree  no  bolt  of  thunder  cleaves," 
And  the  false  semblance  but  disgraced  faJs  brow ; 
Yet  still,  if  fondly  Superatition  grieves. 
Know,  Uiat  the  Ughtnin?  sanctifies  below* 
Whatever  it  strikes ; — yon  head  is  doubly  sacr&c  itovt. 

XLIL 

Italia !  oh  Italia !  thou  who  hast 
The  fatal  gift  of  beauty,  which  became 
A  fimeral  dower  of  present  woes  and  past. 
On  thy  sweet  brow  is  sorrow  ploughed  by  shame, 
And  annals  graved  in  choracten  of  flame. 
Oh,  God !  that  thou  wert  in  thy  nakedness 
Less  lovely  or  more  powerful,  and  couldst  claim 
Thy  right,  and  awe  the  robbers  back,  who  press 
To  shed  Siy  blood,  and  drink  the  tears  of  thy  distress ; 

XLIII. 

Then  might*st  thou  more  appal ;  or,  less  desired. 
Be  homely  and  be  peaceful,  undeplored 
For  thy  destructive  charms ;  then,  still  nntired. 
Would  not  bo  seen  the  armed  torrents  pour'd 
Down  the  deep  Alps ;  nor  would  the  hostile  horde 
Of  many-natiou*d  spoilers  from  the  Fo 
Quaff  blood  and  water ;' nor  the  stranger's  sword 
Be  thy  sad  weapon  of  defence,  and  so, 
Victor  or  vanquishM,  thou  the  slave  of  friend  or  foe.^ 

XLIV. 

Wandering  m  youth,  I  traced  the  path  of  him," 
The  Roman  friend  of  Rome's  least-mortal  mind, 
The  friend  of  Tully :  as  my  bark  did  skim 
The  bright  blue  waters  with  a  fanning  wind, 
Came  Megara  before  me,  and  behind 
.^gina  lay,  Pirsens  on  the  right. 
And  Corinth  on  the  left ;  I  lay  reclined 
Along  tho  prow,  and  saw  all  these  unite 
In  ruin,  even  as  he  had  seen  the  desolate  sight ; 

XLV. 

For  Time  hath  not  rebuilt  them,  but  uprear'd 
Barbaric  dwellings  on  their  shattered  site. 
Which  only  make  more  monm'd  and  more  endcar'd 
The  few  last  ra}%  of  their  far-scatter*d  light, 
And  the  crush'd  relics  of  their  vanished  might 
The  Roman  saw  these  tombs  in  his  own  age. 
These  sepulchres  of  cities,  which  excite 
Sad  wonder,  and  his  yet  surviving  page 
The  moral  lesson  bears,  drawn  from  such  pilgrimage. 


*  I"  1  do  not  know  whether  Scott  will  like  it,  but  I  have 
called  him  '  the  Ariosto  of  the  North'  in  my  text.  If  he 
should  not,  say  so  in  time."— Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  Murray.  Aug. 
1817.J 

*, », «  See  Appendix,  "  Historical  Notes,"  Nos.  xi.  xii. 

XIIT 

">  The  two  stanzas  xlii.  and  xliii.  are,  with  the  exception 
of  a  line  or  two,  a  translation  of  the  famous  sonnet  of 
Filicaja .— "  Italia,  Italia,  O  tu  cm  feo  la  sorto  1" 

•  The  celebrated  letter  of  Servius  Sulpicius  to  Cicero,  on 
the  death  of  his  daughter,  describes  as  it  then  was,  and  now 
is,  a  path  wliich  I  often  traced  in  Greece,  both  by  sea  and 
land,  in  different  journeys  and  voyages.  "On  my  return 
from  Asia,  as  I  was  sailing  from  JEgina  towards  Megara,  I 
began  to  contemplate  the  prospect  of  the  countries  around 
me :  ^Egina  was  behind,  Megara  before  me ;  Pineus  on  the 
right,  Corinth  on  the  left :  all  which  towns,  once  famous 
and  flourishing,  now  lie  overturned  and  buried  in  their 
ruins.  Upon  this  sight,  I  could  not  but  lliink  presently 
within  myself,  Alas  I  how  do  we  poor  mortals  fret  and  vex 
ourselves  if  any  of  our  friends  happen  to  die  or  be  killed, 
whose  life  is  yet  so  short,  when  the  carcasses  of  so  many 
noble  cities  lie  here  exposed  before  me  in  one  view."— See 
Middhton'*  CieerOf  vol.  ii.  p.  371. 


CaIVTO   IV. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


57 


XLVL 
That  page  m  now  before  me,  and  on  mine 
Hi«  comitiy's  ruin  added  to  the  mas 
Of  perished  states  he  mourn'd  in  their  decline, 
And  I  in  desolation :  all  that  was 
Of  then  destruction  is ;  and  now,  alas ! 
Rome — Rome  imperial,  bows  her  to  the  storm, 
■      In  the  same  dust  and  blackness,  and  we  pass 
The  skeleton  of  her  Titanic  form,* 
Wrecks  of  another  world,  whose  ashes  still  aio  wamv. 

'  XLVII. 

Yet,  Italy !  throneh  every  other  land 
I      Thy  wrtHigs  should  ring,  and  shall,  from  side  to  side ; 

Mother  of  Arts !  as  once  of  arms ;  thy  hand 

Was  then  our  ffuardian,  and  is  still  our  guide ; 
I      Parent  of  our  Religion !  whom  the  wide 
I      Nations  have  knelt  to  for  the  keys  of  heaven ! 

Europe,  repentant  of  her  parricide. 

Shall  yet  redeem  thee,  and,  all  backward  driven, 
Roll  the  barbarian  tide,  and  sue  to  be  forgiven. 

XLVIII. 

I      But  Amo  wins  us  to  the  fair  white  walls, 
Where  the  Etrurian  Athens  claims  and  keeps 

'      A  softer  feeling  for  her  fairy  halls. 
Girt  by  her  theatre  of  hills,  she  reaps 

I      Her  com,  and  wine,  and  oil,  and  Plenty  leaps 
To  laughing  life,  with  her  redundant  horn. 
Along  the  banks  where  smiling  Amo  sweeps 
Was  modem  Luxury  of  Commerce  bom, 

I  And  buried  Learning  rose,  redeemM  to  a  new  mom. 


XLDL 

Hiere,  too,  the  Goddess  loves  in  stone,  and  fillip 
The  air  around  with  beauty ;  we  inhide 
The  ambrosial  aspect,  which,  beheld,  instils 
Part  of  its  immortality ;  the  veil 
Of  heaven  is  half  undrawn ;  within  the  pale 


1  It  is  Poggio,  who,  lookinjg  from  the  Capitollne  hill  upon 
nuned  Rome,  breaks  forth  m  the  exclamation,  **  Ut  nunc 
ommdecore  nndata,  prostrata  jacet,  instar  gigantei  cada- 
▼em  oorrupti  atque  undique  exest." 

*  See  Appendix,  **  Historical  Notes,**  Na  xiv. 

*  In  1817,  Lord  Byron  visited  Florence,  on  his  way  to 
Rome.  ''  I  remained,**  he  says.  **btaaday:  however,  I  went 
to  the  two  galleries,  from  which  one  returns  drunk  with 
heaiUf.  The  Venus  is  more  for  admiration  than  love ;  but 
there  are  sculpture  and  painting,  which,  for  the  first  time, 
at  all  gave  me  an  idea  oi  what  people  mean  by  their  cant 
aboat  those  two  most  artificial  01  the  arts.  Whatstmckme 
most  were,  the  mistress  of  Raphael,  a  portrait ;  the  mis- 
tress of  Titian,  a  portrait ;  a  Venus  of  Titian  in  the  Medici 
Gallery ;  the  Venus ;  Canova's  Venus,  also,  in  the  other 
faUery :  Titian's  mistress  is  also  in  the  other  gallery,  (that 
u,  m  the  Pitti  Palace  gallery  ;}  the  ParcsB  of  Michael  An- 
gelo,  a  picture  ;  and  the  Antinous,  the  Alexander,  and  one 
ort«'o  not  very  decent  groups  in  marble  ;  the  Genius  of 
I>etth,  a  sleeping  figure,  Ac.  4tc.  I  also  went  to  the  Me- 
<hci  chapel.  Fine  frippery  in  great  slabs  of  various  expen- 
sive  stones,  to  commemorate  fifty  rotten  and  forgotten 
carcasses.  It  is  unfinished,  and  wiU  remain  so.**  We  find 
tbe  foUowinff  note  of  a  second  visit  to  the  galleries  in  1821, 
accompanied  by  the  author  of  '*  The  Pleasures  of  Memo- 
ry :"_"  My  former  impressions  were  confirmed  j  but  there 
were  too  many  visiters  to  allow  me  to  feel  any  thmgproper- 
Ir.  When  we  were  (dbout  thirty  or  forty)  8ul  stuffed  mto 
the  cabinet  of  gems  and  knick-knackeries,  in  a  comer  of  one 
of  the  galleries,  I  told  Rogers  that  *  it  felt  like  being  in  the 
wa:ch-hou5e.'  I  heard  one  bold  Briton  declare  to  the 
woman  on  his  arm,  looking  at  the  Venus  of  Titian, '  Well, 
DOW,  that  is  really  very  fine  indeed!*— an  observation 
*hic '.  like  that  of^  the  landlord  in  Joseph  Andrews,  on 

the  certainty  of  death,'  was  (as  the  landlord's  wife  ob- 
••rved)  ♦  extremely  true.'  In  the  Pitti  Palace,  I  did  not 
•ant  Goldsmith's  prescription  for  a  connoisseur,  viz.,  *that 


We  stand,  and  in  that  form  and  face  behold 
What  Mind  can  make,  wheu  Nature's  self  would  fail ; 
And  to  the  fond  idolaters  of  old 
Envy  the  innate  flash  which  such  a  soul  could  mould : 


We  gaze  and  turn  away,  and  know  not  where. 
Dazzled  and  drunk  with  beauty,  till  the  heart' 
Reels  with  its  fulness  ;  there — forever  there — 
ChainM  to  the  chariot  of  triiunphal  Art, 
We  stand  as  captives,  and  would  not  depart 
Away ! — there  need  no  words,  nor  terms  precifiOy 
The  paltry  jargon  of  the  marble  mart, 
Wliere  Pedantry  gulls  Folly — we  have  eyes : 
Blood — pulse — and  breast,  confirm  the  Dardan  Shep- 
herd's prize. 

LI. 

Appear^dst  thou  not  to  Paris  in  this  ^rulse  ? 
Or  to  more  deeply  ble88*d  Anchises  ?  c  , 
In  all  thy  perfect  goddess-ship,  when  lies 
Before  thee  thy  own  vanquished  Lord  of  War's 
And  gazing  in  thy  face  as  toward  a  star. 
Laid  on  thy  lap,  his  eyes  to  thee  upturn. 
Feeding  on  thy  sweet  cheek  !^  while  thy  lips  are 
With  lava  kisses  melting  while  they  bum, 
Shower'd  on  his  eyelids,  brow,  and  mouth,  as  from  an 
um!* 

LIL 

Glowing,  and  circumfused  in  speechless  love. 
Their  full  divinity  inadequate 
That  feeling  to  express,  or  to  unprove, 
The  gods  become  as  mortals,  and  man's  fate 
Has  moments  like  their  brightest ;  but  the  weight 
Of  earth  recoils  upon  us ; — let  it  go ! 
We  can  recall  such  visions,  and  create,  [grow 

From  what  has  been,  or  might  be,  things  which 
Into  thy  statue's  form,  and  look  like  gods  below. 


the  pictures  would  have  been  better  if  the  painter  had  taken 
more  pains,  and  to  praise  the  works  of  Peter  Perugino.' "] 

*  O^OaXftovs  iericiv. 

"Atque  oculos  pascat  ulerque  suos.**— Ovid.  Amor.  lib.  ii. 

ft  [The  delight  with  which  the  pilgrim  contemplates  the 
ancient  Greek  statues  at  Florence,  and  afterwards  at  Rome, 
is  such  as  might  have  been  expected  from  any  great  poet, 
whose  youthlul  mind  had,  like  liis,  been  imbued  with  those 
classical  ideas  and  associations  which  afford  so  many 
sources  of  pleasure,  through  every  period  of  life.  He  has 
gazed  upon  these  masterpieces  of^art  with  a  more  suscep- 
tible, and,  in  spite  of  his  disavowal,  with  a  more  learned 
eye,  than  can  be  traced  in  the  efTusions  of  any  poet  who 
had  previously  expressed,  in  any  formal  manner,  his  admi- 
ration of  their  beauty.  It  may  appear  fanciful  to  say  so  ;— 
but  we'think  the  genms  of  Byron  is,  more  than  that  of  any 
other  modem  poet,  akin  to  that  peculiar  genius  which 
seems  to  have  been  diffused  among  all  the  poets  and  artists 
of  ancient  Greece ;  and  in  whose  spirit,  above  all  its  other 
wonders,  the  ffreat  specimens  of  sculpture  seem  to  have 
been  conceived  and  executed.  His  creations,  whether  of 
beauty  or  of  strength,  are  all  single  creations.  He  requires 
no  grouping  to  give  effect  to  his  favorites,  or  to  tell  his 
story,  liis  heroines  are  solitary  symbols  of  loveliness, 
which  require  no  foil ;  his  heroes  stand  alone  as  upon  mar- 
ble pedestals,  displaying  the  naked  power  ofpassion,  or  the 
wrapped  up  and  reposing  energy  of  grief.  The  artist  who 
would  illustrate,  as  it  is  called,  the  works  of  any  of  our 
other  poets,  muiit  borrow  the  mimic  splendois  of  the  pen- 
cil, lie  who  would  transfer  into  another  vehicle  the  spirit 
of  Byron,  must  pour  the  liquid  metal,  or  hew  the  stubborn 
rock.  What  he  loses  in  ease,  he  will  gain  in  power.  He 
might  draw  from  Medora,  Gulnare,  Lara,  or  Manfred,  sub- 
jects for  relievos,  worthy  of  enthusiasm  almost  as  great  as 
Harold  has  himself  tUspIayetl  on  the  contemplation  of  the 
loveliest  and  the  sternest  rebcs  of  the  inimi'  able  gemus  of 
the  Greeks.— Wilson. J 


58 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  iv. 


LIII. 

I  leave  to  learned  fingers,  and  wife  handi, 

The  artist  and  his  ape,'  to  teach  and  tell 

How  well  his  connoiflsourehip  undentands 

The  graceful  bend,  and  the  yoluptuoua  sweU : 

Let  these  describe  the  nndeseribable : 

I  would  not  their  vile  breath  should  crisp  the  stream 

Wherein  that  image  shall  forever  dwell ; 

The  unnifHod  mirror  of  the  loveliest  dream 

That  ever  left  the  sky  on  the  deep  soul  to  beam. 
LIV. 
In  Santa  Croce's  holy  precincts  lie* 
Ashes  which  make  it  holier,  dust  which  is 
Even  in  itself  an  immortality, 
Though  there  were  nothing  save  the  past,  and  this, 
The  particle  of  those  sublimities 
Which  have  relapsed  to  chaos : — here  repose 
Augelo*8,  Alfieri's  bones,  and  his,* 
The  starry  Galileo,  with  his  woes  ; 

Here  Machiavelli's  earth  returned  to  whence  it  rose.^ 

LV. 

These  are  four  minds,  which,  like  the  elements, 
Might  furnish  forth  creation : — Italy !  [rents 

Time,  which  hath  -wronged  thee  with  ten  thousand 
Of  thine  imperial  garment,  shall  deny. 
And  hath  denied,  to  every  other  sky, 
Spirits  which  soar  from  ruin : — thy  decay 
Is  still  impregnate  with  divinity, 
Which  gilds  it  with  revivifying  ray ; 
Such  as  the  great  of  yore,  Canova  is  to-day. 

LVI. 

But  where  repose  the  all  Etruscan  three — 
Dante,  and  Petrarch,  and,  scarce  less  than  they, 
The  Bard  of  Prose,  creative  spirit !  he 
Of  the  Hundred  Tales  of  love — where  did  they  lay 
Their  bones,  distinguished  from  our  common  clay 
In  death  as  life  7     Are  they  resolved  to  dust. 
And  have  their  country's  marbles  naught  to  say? 
Could  not  her  quarries  furnish  forth  one  bust? 
Did  they  not  to  her  breast  their  filial  earth  intrust? 

LVIL 

Ungrateful  Florence !  Dante  sleeps  afar,* 
Like  Scipio,  buried  by  the  upbraiding  shore  f 
Thy  factions,  in  their  worse  than  civil  war. 
Proscribed  the  bard  whose  name  for  evermore 
Their  children's  children  would  in  vain  adore 
With  the  remorse  of  ages ;  and  the  crown^ 
Which  Petrarch's  laureate  brow  supremely  wore, 
Upon  a  far  and  foreign  soil  had  grown,  [own. 

His  life,  his  fame,  his  grave,  thou^  rifled — not  thine 

LVIII. 

Boccaccio  to  his  parent  earth  bequeathed" 
HiH  dust, — and  lies  it  not  her  Great  among, 
With  many  a  sweet  and  solemn  requiem  breathed 
O'er  him  who  form'd  the  Tuscan's  siren  tongue? 


>  [Only  a  week  before  the  poet  visited  the  Florenc«  ^pl> 
lo'-y,  he  wrote  thus  to  a  friend :— '*  I  know  nothing  of  pamt- 
hig.  Depend  upon  it,  of  all  the  arts,  it  is  the  most  artificial 
aiid  nnatural,  and  that  by  which  the  nonsense  of  numkind 
is  most  imixKted  upon.  I  never  ret  saw  the  picture  or  the 
Mill  Lie  wrhich  came  a  league  witnin  my  conception  or  ex> 
IMTtx'on  ;  but  1  have  seen  many  mountains,  and  seas,  and 
nvp^^.  and  views,  and  two  or  three  women,  who  went  as 
fnr  l)eyond  iV^—Byrcn  Letters.] 

■^,\*  Sec  Appendix,  "  Historical  Notes,**  Nos.  xv.  xvi. 
XVII.— {*'  I'he  church  of  Santa  Croce  contains  much  illus« 
trious  nothing.  The  tombs  of  MachiaveUi,  Michael  Angelo, 
Galileo,  and  Alfieii,  make  it  the  Westminster  Abbey  of  Italy. 
1  did  not  admire  any  of  these  tombs— 4)eyond  their  contents. 


That  mnsic  m  itself,  whose  sounds  are  song» 
The  poetry  of  speech  ?    No ;— even  his  tomb 
Uptom,  must  bear  the  hyiena  bigot's  wrong, 
No  more  amidst  the  meaner  dead  find  room. 
Nor  chum  a  passmg  sigh,  because  it  told  for  whmm . 

LIX. 

And  Santa  Croce  wants  their  mighty  dust ; 
Yet  fdr  this  want  more  noted,  as  of  yore 
The  CsBsar's  pageant,  shorn  of  Brutus'  bust. 
Did  but  of  Rome's  best  Son  remind  her  more : 
Happier  Ravenna !  on  thy  hoary  shore, 
Fortress  of  falling  empire !  honor'd  sleeps 
The  inmiortal  eule ; — Arqua,  too,  her  store 
Of  tuneful  relics  proudly  claims  and  keeps,  [weeps. 
While  Florence  vainly  begs  her  banish'd  dead  and 

LX. 

What  is  her  pyramid  of  precioas  stones?* 
Of  porphyry,  jai^r,  agate,  and  all  hues 
Of  gem  and  maihle,  to  incmst  the  bones 
Of  merchant-dukes?  the  momentary  dews 
Which,  sparkUng  to  the  twilight  stars,  infuse 
Freshness  in  the  green  turf  that  wraps  Jie  dead, 
Whose  names  are  mausoleums  of  the  Muse, 
Are  gently  prees'd  with  far  more  reverent  tread 
Than  ever  paced  the  slab  which  paves  the  princely  head. 

LXL 

There  be  more  things  to  greet  the  heart  and  eyes 
In  Ajno's  dome  of  Art's  most  princely  shrine. 
Where  Sculpture  with  her  rainbow  sister  vies ; 
There  be  more  marvels  yet — ^but  not  for  mine ; 
For  I  have  been  accustom'd  to  entwine 
My  thoughts  with  Nature  rather  in  the  fields. 
Than  Art  in  galleries :  though  a  work  divine 
Calls  for  my  spirit's  homage,  yet  it  yields 
Less  than  it  feels,  because  the  weapon  which  it  wields 

LXIL 

Is  of  another  temper,  and  I  roam 
By  Thrasiraene's  lake,  in  the  defiles 
Fatal  to  Roman  rashness,  more  at  home ; 
For  there  the  Carthaginian's  wariike  wiles 
Come  back  before  me,  as  his  skill  beguiles 
The  host  between  the  mountains  and  the  shore. 
Where  Courage  falls  in  her  despairing  files, 
And  tcwrents,  swoU'n  to  rivers  with  their  gore. 
Reek  through  the  sultry  plain,  with  legions  scatter'd  o'er, 

LXIIL 

like  to  a  forest  fell'd  by  mountain  winds ; 
And  such  the  storm  of  battle  on  this  day. 
And  such  the  phrensy,  whose  convulsion  blmds 
To  all  save  carnage,  that,  beneath  the  fray. 
An  earthquake  recl'd  unheededly  away  !** 
None  felt  stem  Nature  rocking  at  his  feet, 
And  yawning  forth  a  grave  for  those  who  lay 
Upon  then*  bucklers  for  a  winding  sheet ;      [meet  I 
Such  is  the  absorbing  hate  when  warring  nations 


That  of  Alfieri  is  heavy ;  and  all  of  them  seem  to  be  over- 
loaded. What  is  necessary  but  a  bust  and  name  ?  and  per- 
haps a  date !  the  last  for  the  unchronological,  of  whom  I 
am  one.  But  all  your  allegory  and  eulogy  is  infernal,  and 
worse  than  the  long  wigs  of  English  numskulls  unon  Roman 
bodies,  in  the  statuary  of  the  reigns  of  Charles  the  Second, 
William,  and  Anne.**    Bjrron  Letters^  1817.) 

*, «,  ^,  •  See  Appendix,  **  Historical  Notes,**  Not.  xviii. 
XIX.  XX.  and  xxi. 

•  See  Appendix,  *'  Historical  Notes,**  No.  xxii. 

u  See  Appendix,  **  Historical  Notes,**  No.  xxiii.— f  An 
earthquake  which  shook  all  Italy  occurred  during  the  t>at- 
tie,  and  was  unfelt  by  any  of  the  combatants.] 


Canto  iv. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


59 


LXIV. 

The  Earth  to  them  was  as  a  rollmg  baik 
Which  bore  them  to  Eternity ;  they  saw 
The  Ocean  roand,  but  had  no  time  to  max^ 
The  motions  of  their  vessel ;  Nature's  law. 
Id  them  euqiended,  reck'd  not  of  the  awe       [btrds 
Which    TBifTos  when   mountains  tremble,  and  the 
Plunge  in  the  clouds  for  refuge  and  withdraw 
From   their  down-topi>ling  nests;   and  bellowing 
herds  [no  wor<^ 

StnmUe  o'er  heaying  plams,  and  man's  dread  hath 

LXV. 

Far  other  scene  is  Thrasimene  now ; 
Her  lake  a  sheet  of  silver,  and  her  plain 
Rent  by  no  ravage  save  the  gentle  plough ; 
Her  aged  trees  rise  thick  as  once  the  slam 
Lay  where  their  roots  are ;  but  a  brook  hath  ta'en — 
A  little  rill  of  scanty  stream  and  bed— 
A  name  of  Mood  from  that  day's  sanguine  rain  ; 
And  Sanguinetto  tells  ye  where  the  dead         [red* 
Made  the  earth  wet,  and  tum'd  the  unwilling  waten 

LXVL 
But  thoQ,  Clitumnus !  in  thy  sweetest  wave' 
Of  the  most  living  crystal  that  was  e'er 
The  haunt  of  river  nymph,  to  gaze  and  lave 
Her  hmbe  where  nothing  hid  them,  thou  dost  rear 
Thy  grassy  banks  whereon  the  milk-white  steer 
Grazes ;  the  purest  god  of  gentle  waters ! 
And  most  serene  of  aspect,  and  most  clear ; 
Surely  that  stream  was  unprofaned  by  slaughters— 
A  mirror  and  a  bath  for  Beauty's  youngest  daughters ! 

LXVIL 

And  OD  thy  happy  shore  a  Temple'  still, 
Of  small  and  delicate  proportion,  keeps. 
Upon  a  mild  declivity  of  hill, 
Its  memory  of  thee ;  beneath  it  sweeps 
Thy  current's  calmness ;  oft  from  out  it  leaps 
The  finny  dorter  with  the  glittering  scales. 
Who  dwells  and  revels  in  thy  glassy  deeps ; 
While,  chance,  some  scattered  water-lily  sails 
Down  ^ere  the  shallower  wave  still  tells  its  bub- 
bling tales. 


1  ["The  k>TeIype«ceAil  mirror  reflected  the  mountains  of 
Monte  Pulciana,  and  the  wild  fowl  skimming  its  ample  sur- 
&ce,  touched  the  waters  with  their  rapid  wings,  leamg  cir- 
cles and  trains  of  lixht  to  ^tter  in  gray  repose.  As  we 
moved  along,  one  set  of  mtercsting  features  yielded  to 
soother,  ana  every  change  excited  new  delight.  Tet,  was 
it  not  amonf  these  tranquil  scenes  that  Hannibal  and  Fla- 
minios  meti  Was  not  the  blush  of  blood  upon  the  silver 
lake  of  Thrasimene  T'—H.  W.  Williams.] 

*  No  book  of  travels  has  omitted  to  expatiate  on  the  tern- 
^9  of  the  Clitumnust  between  Foligno  and  Spoleto ;  and  no 
■ite,  or  scenery,  even  in  Italy,  is  more  worthy  a  description. 
For  an  account  of  the  dilapidation  of  this  temple,  the  read- 
er IS  referred  to  "  Histoncal  Ulustrations  oi  the  Fourth 
Canto  of  Childe  Harold,"  p.  35. 

>  {**  This  pretty  little  gem  stands  on  the  acclivity  of  a  bank 
overlooking  its  crystal  waters,  which  have  their  source  at  the 
distance  ofsome  nundred  yards  towards  Spoleto.  The  tem- 
ple, irontms  the  river,  is  of  an  oblong  form,  in  the  Corinthi- 
sn  order.  ^>ur  columns  support  the  pediment,  the  shafts  of 
which  are  covered  in  flpiral  lines,  and  in  forms  to  represent 
<he  scales  of  fishes :  the  bases,  too,  are  richly  sculptured. 
Within  the  building  is  a  chapel,  the  walls  of  which  are  cov- 
ered with  many  hundred  names :  but  we  saw  none  which  we 
could  recognise  as  British.  Can  it  be  that  this  classical 
temple  is  seldom  visited  by  our  countrymen,  though  cele- 
brated by  Dryden  and  Addison  ?  To  future  travellers  from 
Britain  it  wiU  surely  be  rendered  interesting  by  the  beauti- 
All  lines  of  Lord  Byron,  flowing  as  sweetly  as  the  lovely 
ttream  which  they  describe."— H.  W.  Williams.] 

*  [Perhaps  there  are  no  verses  in  our  lan^age  of  happier 
dsseriptive  power  than  the  two  stanzas  which  characterize 
the  Clitumnus.  In  general,  poets  find  it  so  difficult  to  leave 


LXVIII. 
Pass  not  nnUees^d  the  Genius  of  the  place ! 
If  through  the  air  a  zephyr  more  serene 
Win  to  tlie  brow,  *tis  his ;  and  if  ye  trace 
Along  his  margin  a  more  eloquent  green. 
If  on  the  heart  the  freshness  of  the  scene 
Sprinkle  its  coolness,  and  from  the  dry  dust 
Of  weary  life  a  moment  lave  it  clean 
With  Nature's  baptism, — *tis  to  him  ye  must 
Pay  orisons  for  this  suspension  of  disgust^ 

LXIX. 

The  roar  of  waters ! — from  the  headlong  height 
Velino  cleaves  the  wave -worn  precipice ; 
The  fall  of  waters !  rapid  as  the  light 
The  flashing  mass  foams  shaking  the  abyss ; 
The  hell  of  waters !  where  they  howl  and  hiss, 
And  boil  in  endless  torture  ;  while  the  sweat 
Of  their  great  agony,  wrung  out  from  this 
Their  Pmegethon,  curls  romid  the  rocks  of  jet 
That  gird  the  gulf  around,  in  pitiless  horror  set, 

LXX. 

And  mounts  in  spray  the  skies,  and  thence  again 
Returns  in  an  unceasing  shower,  which  round. 
With  its  unemptied  cloud  of  gentle  rain, 
Is  an  eternal  April  to  the  ground. 
Making  it  all  one  emerald : — how  profound 
The  gidf !  and  how  the  giant  element 
From  rock  to  rock  leaps  with  delirious  bound, 
Crushhiff  the  cliffi,  which,  downward  worn  and  rent 
With  his  fierce  footsteps,  yield  in  chasms  a  fearful 
vent 

LXXL 

To  the  broad  column  which  rolls  on,  and  shows 
More  like  the  fountain  of  an  infant  sea 
Tom  from  the  womb  of  mountains  by  the  throes 
Of  a  new  world,  than  only  thus  to  be 
Parent  of  rivers,  which  flow  gushingly,         [back ! 
With  many  windings,  through  the  vale: — Look 
Lo !  where  it  comes  like  an  eternity, 
As  if  to  sweep  down  all  things  in  its  track. 
Charming  the  eye  with  dread, — a  matchless  cataract,* 


an  interesting  subject,  that  they  injure  the  distinctness  of  the 
description  by  loading  it  so  as  to  embarrass,  rather  than  ex- 
cite, tne  fancy  of  the  reader ;  or  else,  to  avoid  that  fault, 
they  confine  themselves  to  cold  and  abstract  generalities. 
Byron  has,  in  these  stanzas,  admirably  steered  his  cou  rse  be-  | 
twixt  these  extremes :  while  they  present  the  outlines  of  a  i 
picture  as  pure  and  as  brilliant  as  those  of  Claude  Lorraine,   i 
the  task  of  filling  up  the  more  minute  particulars  is  judi- 
ciously left  to  the  imagination  of  the  reader :  and  it  must  be  | 
dull  indeed  if  it  does  not  supply  what  the  poet  has  left  un-  , 
said,  or  but  generally  and  briefly  intimated.   While  the  eye  , 
glances  over  the  lines,  we  seem  to  feel  the  refreshing  cool- 
ness of  the  scene— we  hear  the  bubbling  tale  of  the  more 
rapid  streams,  and  see  the  slender  proportions  of  tne  rural 
temple  reflected  in  the  crystal  depth  of  the  calm  pool.— Sia 
Waltxk  Scott.J 

•  I  saw  the  Cascata  del  Marmore  of  Temi  twice,  at  dif- 
ferent periods ;  once  from  the  summit  of  the  precipice,  and 
again  from  the  valley  below.  The  lower  view  is  far  to  be 
preferred,  if  the  traveller  has  time  for  one  only ;  but  in  any 
point  of  view,  either  from  above  or  below,  it  is  worth  all  the 
cascades  and  torrents  of  Switzerland  put  U^ther :  the  Stau- 
bach,  Reichenbach,  Pisse  Vache,  fietU  of  Arpenaz,  &c.,  are 
riUs  in  comparative  appearance.  Of  the  fall  of  Schafl'hausen 
I  cannot  speak,  not  yet  having  seen  it.— C"  The  stunning 
sound,  the  mist,  uncertainty,  and  tremendous  depth,  bewil- 
dered the  senses  for  a  time,  and  the  eye  had  little  rest,  from 
the  impetuous  and  hurrying  waters,  to  search  into  the  mys- 
terious and  whitened  gulf,  which  presented,  through  a  cloud 
of  spray,  the  apparitions,  as  it  were,  of  rocks  and  overhang- 
ing wood.  The  vrind,  however,  would  sometimes  remove 
for  an  instant  this  misty  veil,  and  display  such  a  scene  of 
havoc  as  appalled  the  soul."— H.  W.  Williams.] 


60 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  iv. 


LXXII. 

Horribly  beautiful !  but  on  the  verge, 
From  eide  to  ride,  beneath  the  glittering  mom, 
An  Iris  ritii,  amidst  the  infernal  surge,' 
Like  Hope  upon  a  death-bed,  and,  imwom 
Its  steady  dyes,  while  all  around  is  torn 
By  the  distracted  waters,  bean  serene 
Its  brilliaut  hues  with  all  their  beams  unshorn : 
Resembling,  'raid  the  torture  of  the  scene. 
Love  watching  Madness  with  unalterable  mien. 

LXXIU. 

Once  more  upon  the  woody  Apennine, 
The  infant  Alps,  which — liad  I  not  before 
Gazed  on  their  mightier  parents,  where  the  pine 
Sits  on  more  shaggy  summits,  and  where  roai' 
The    thundering    lauwine — ^might    be    worshipped 
But  I  have  seen  the  soaring  Jungfrau  rear    [more ; 
Her  never-trodden  snow,  and  seen  the  hoar 
Glaciers  of  bleak  Mont  Blanc  both  for  and  near. 
And  in  Chimari  heard  the  thunder-hills  of  fear, 

LXXIV. 

Th'  Acroceraunian  mountams  of  old  name ; 
And  on  Parnassus  seen  the  eagles  fly 
like  spirits  of  the  spot,  as  'twere  for  fame. 
For  still  they  soared  unutterably  high : 
I've  look'd  on  Ida  with  a  Trojan's  eye ; 
Athos,  Olympus,  i£tua.  Atlas,  made 
These  hills  seem  things  of  lesser  dignity. 
All,  save  the  lone  Soracte's  height,  displajr^d 
Not  now  in  snow,  which  asks  the  lyric  Roman's  aid 

LXXV. 

For  our  remembrance,  and  from  out  the  plain 
Heaves  like  a  long-swept  wave  about  to  break, 
And  on  the  curi  hangs  pausing :  not  in  vam 
May  he,  who  will,  his  recollections  rake. 
And  quote  in  classic  raptures,  and  awake 
The  hills  with  Latian  echoes ;  I  abhoir'd 
Too  much,  to  conquer  for  the  poet's  soke, 
The  drill'd  dull  lesson,  forced  down  word  by  word* 
In  my  repugnant  youth,  with  pleasure  to  record 


1  Of  the  time,  place,  and  qualities  of  this  kind  of  iris,  the 
reader  will  see  a  short  account,  in  a  note  to  Manfred.  The 
fall  looks  so  much  like  •♦  the  hell  of  waters,*'  that  Addison 
thought  the  descent  alluded  to  by  the  gulf  in  which  Alecto 
plunged  into  the  infernal  re^ons.  It  is  singuhir  enough,  that 
two  of  the  finest  cascades  m  Europe  should  be  artificial— 
this  of  the  Velino,  and  the  one  at  Tivoli.  The  traveller  is 
strongly  recommended  to  trace  the  Velino,  at  least  as  high 
as  the  little  lake,  called  PiV  di  Lup.  The  Keatme  territory 
was  the  Italian  Tempo,  (Cicer.  Epist.  ad  Attic,  xv.  lib.  iv.,) 
and  the  ancient  naturalists,  (Plin.  Hist.  Nat.  lib.  ii.  cap. 
Ixii.,)  amongst  other  beautiful  varieties,  remarked  the  daily 
rainbows  of  the  lake  Velinus.  A  scholar  of  great  name  has 
devoted  a  treatise  to  this  district  alone.  See  Aid.  Manut.  de 
Reatina  Urbe  Agroque,  an.  Sallengre,  Thesaur.  torn.  i.  p.  773. 

3  In  th<*  greater  part  or  Switzerland,  the  avalanches  are 
known  h)  the  name  of  lauwine. 

s  These  stanzas  may  probably  remind  the  reader  of  Ensign 
Northerton's  remarks:  "  D—n  Homo,"  &c. ;  but  the  reasons 
for  our  dislike  are  not  exactly  the  same.  I  wish  to  express, 
that  we  become  tired  of  the  task  before  we  can  comprehend 
the  beauty ;  th.at  we  learn  by  rote  before  we  can  get  by  heart : 
that  the  freshness  is  worn  away,  and  the  future  pleasure  ana 
advantage  deadened  and  destroyed,  by  the  didactic  antici- 
pation, at  an  age  when  we  can  neither  feel  nor  understand 
the  power  of  compositions  which  it  requires  an  acquaintance 
with  life,  as  well  as  Latin  and  Greek,  to  relish,  or  to  reason 
upon.  For  the  same  reason,  we  never  can  be  aware  of  the 
fulness  of  some  of  the  finest  passages  of  Shakspeare,  (*•  To 
be,  or  not  to  be,*'  for  instance.)  from  the  habit  of  having 
them  hammered  into  us  at  eight  years  old,  as  an  exercise, 
not  of  mind,  but  of  memory :  so  that  when  we  are  old  enough 
to  ei\joy  them,  the  taste  is  gone,  and  the  appetite  palled.  In 
some  parts  of  the  continenu  young  persons  are  taught  from 
more  common  authors,  and  do  not  read  the  best  classics  till 


LXXVL 

Aught  that  recalls  the  daily  drug  which  tum'd 
My  sickening  memory;  and,  though  Time  hath 
My  mind  to  meditate  what  then  it  leam'd,  [taught 
Yet  such  the  fix'd  inveteracy  wrought 
By  the  impatience  of  my  early  thought, 
That,  with  the  freshness  wearing  out  before 
My  mind  could  relish  what  it  might  have  sought, 
If  free  to  choose,  I  caimot  now  restore 
||a  health  ;  but  what  it  then  detested,  still  abhor. 

LXXVII. 

Then  farewell,  Horace ;  whom  I  hated  so,* 
Not  for  thy  faults,  but  mine ;  it  is  a  curse 
To  understand,  not  feel  thy  lyric  flow, 
To  comprehend,  but  never  love  thy  verse. 
Although  no  deeper  Moralist  rehearse 
Our  little  life,  nor  Bard  prescribe  his  art. 
Nor  livelier  Satirist  the  conscience  pierce, 
Awakenmg  without  wounding  the  touched  heart, 
Yet  fare  thee  well — ^upon  Soracte's  ridge  we  part 

LXXVIIL 

Oh  Rome !  my  cotmtry !  city  of  the  soul ! 
The  oq>hans  oi  the  heart  must  turn  to  thee. 
Lone  mother  of  dead  empires !  and  control 
In  their  shut  breasts  tlieir  petty  misery. 
What  are  our  woes  and  suifferance  7    Come  and  see 
The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your  way 
O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples,  Ye  ! 
Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day — 
A  worid  is  at  otur  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 

LXXIX. 

The  Niobe  of  nations !  there  she  stands,' 
Childless  and  crownless,  in  her  voiceless  wo ; 
An  empty  urn  within  her  wither'd  hands, 
Whose  holy  dust  was  scattered  long  ago ; 
The  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now  f 
The  very  sepulchres  lie  tenantloss 
Of  then'  heroic  dwellers:  dost  thou  flow, 
Old  Tiber!  through  a  marble  wilderness? 
Rise,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle  her  distresn 


their  maturity.  I  certainly  do  not  speak  on  this  point  from 
any  pique  or  aversion  towards  the  place  of  my  education.  I 
was  not  a  slow,  though  an  idle  boy ;  and  I  believe  no  one 
could,  or  can  be,  more  attached  to  Harrow  than  I  have  al- 
ways been,  and  with  reason  ,-— a  part  of  the  time  passed 
there  was  the  happiest  of  my  life ;  and  my  preceptor,  the 
Rev.  Dr.  Joseph  Drury,  was  tne  best  and  worthiest  friend  I 
ever  possessed,  whose  warnings  I  have  remembered  but  too 
well,  though  too  late  when  I  have  erred,— and  whose  coun- 
sels I  have  but  followed  when  I  have  done  well  or  wisely. 
If  ever  this  imperfect  record  of  my  feelings  towards  him 
should  reach  his  eyes,  let  it  remind  him  of  one  who  never 
thinks  of  him  but  wnth  gratitude  and  veneration— of  one  who 
would  more  gladly  bojist  of  having  been  his  pupil,  if,  by 
more  closely  following  his  injunctions,  he  could  reflect  any 
honor  upon  his  instructor. 

*  [Lord  Byron's  prepossession  agamst  Horace  is  not  with- 
out a  parallel.  It  was  not  till  released  from  the  dutv  of 
reading  Virgil  nn  a  task,  that  Gray  could  feel  himself  capa- 
ble of  enjoying  the  beauties  of  that  poet.— Moork.] 

*  ['•  I  have  been  some  days  in  Rome  the  Wonderful.  I  am 
delighted  with  Rome.    As  a  whole— ancient  and  modem,— 

it  beats  Greece,  Constantinople,  every  thing— at  leavt  that    i 
I  have  ever  seen.  But  I  can*t  describe,  because  mv  fin>i  im-   . 
pressions  are  always  strong  and  confused,  and  my  mciiiorv    . 
9electg  and  reduces  them  to  order,  like  distance  in  the  land-    ' 
scape,  and  blends  them  better,  although  they  may  If  less 
distinct.    I  have  been  on  horseback  most  of  the  day,  all 
days  since  my  arrival.    I  have  been  to  Albano,  its  lakes, 
and  to  the  top  of  the  Alban  Mount,  and  to  Frescati,  Ai  cia, 
Ac.    As  for  the  Coliseum,  Pantheon,  St.  Peter's,  the  Vati- 
can, Palatine,  Ac.  &c.,— they  are  quite  inconce:vat  le.  and 
must  be  «cti." — Byron  Lftters^  May,  1817.J 

«  For  a  comment  on  this  and  the  two  following  stanzas, 
the  reader  may  consult  '*  Historical  Illustrations,^  P-  4(1. 


CjkNTO    IV. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


61 


LXXX. 

The  Goth,  the  Christian,  Time,  War,  Flood,  and  Fire, 
Have  dealt  upon  the  seven-hill'd  city's  pride ; 
She  saw  her  glories  star  by  star  expire, 
And  up  the  steep  barbarian  monarchs  ride. 
Where  the  car  climb'd  the  capitol ;  far  and  wide 
Temple  and  tower  went  down,  nor  left  a  site : — 
Chaos  of  ruins !  who  shall  trace  the  void. 
O'er  the  dim  fragments  cast  a  lunar  light, 
I  And  say,  '*  here  was,  or  is,"  where  all  is  doub^^  night? 

I  LXXXI. 

The  double  night  of  ages,  and  of  her, 

j      Night's  daughter,  Ignorance,  hath  wrapp'd  and  wrap 
All  round  us ;  we  but  feel  our  way  to  err: 
The  ocean  hath  his  chart,  the  stare  their  map, 
And  Knowledge  spreads  them  on  her  ample  1^ ; 
But  Rome  is  as  the  desert,  where  we  steer 
Stumbling  o'or  recollections ;  now  we  clap 
Our  han£,  and  cry,  "  Eureka  I"  it  is  clear — 
When  but  some  false  mirage  of  ruin  rises  near. 


LXXXII. 

Alas !  the  lofty  city !  and  alas ! 
The  trebly  hundred  triumphs  !*  and  the  day 
When  Brutus  made  the  dagger's  edge  surpass 
The  conqueror's  sword  in  bearing  fame  away ! 
Alas,  for  Tully's  voice,  and  Virgil's  lay. 
And  Livy's  pictured  page ! — but  these  shall  be 
Her  resurrection  ;  all  bMide— decay. 
AlaS)  for  Earth,  for  never  shaU  we  see 
Hiat  brightness  in  her  eye  she  bore  when  Rome  was 
free! 

Lxxxm. 

Oh  thou,  whose  chariot  roll'd  on  Fortune's  wheel, 
Triumphant  Sylla !    Thou,  who  didst  subdue 
Thy  country's  foes  ere  thou  wouldst  pause  to  feel 
The  wrath  of  thy  own  wrongs,  or  reap  the  due 
Of  hoarded  vengeance  till  thine  eagles  flew 
O'er  prostrate  A^a  •, — ^thou,  who  with  thy  fh>wn 
Annihilated  senates — Roman,  too. 
With  all  thy  vices,  for  thou  didst  lay  down 
With  an  atoning  smile  a  moro  than  earthly  crown— 

LXXXIV. 

The  dictatorial  wreath,'— couldst  thou  divine 
To  what  would  one  day  dwindle  that  which  made 
Thee  more  than  mortal  ?  and  that  so  supine 
By  aught  than  Romans  Rome  should  thus  be  laid? 
She  who  was  named  Eternal,  and  array'd 
Her  warriors  but  to  conquer--she  who  vcil'd 
Earth  with  her  haughty  shadow,  and  display'd, 
Until  the  o'er-canopied  horizon  fail'd. 
Her  rushing  wing8---Oh!   she  who  was  Almighty 
haU'd! 


*  Orosius  gives  320  tor  tne  numoer  of  triumphs.  He  is 
I  followed  by  PanTinius ;  and  Panvuius  by  Mr.  Gibbon  and 
;  the  modern  writers. 

I  '  Certainly,  were  it  not  for  these  two  traits  in  the  life  of 
;  Sylla,  alluded  to  in  this  stanza,  we  should  regard  him  as 
I  ^  monster  unredeemed  by  any  admirable  quality.  The 
j  ^onement  of  his  volunlary  resignation  of  empire  may  pcr- 
1  ^P*  be  accepted  by  us,  as  it  seems  to  have  satisfied  the 
,  2P5***"»  *^  ^  ***®y  ^^^  ^°^  respected  must  have  destroy- 
wmm.  There  could  be  no  mean,  no  division  of  opimon : 
wey  must  have  all  thought,  like  Eucrates,  that  what  had 
"T^ied  amotion  was  a  love  of  glory,  and  that  what 
i  been  mistaken  for  pride  was  a  real  grandeur  of  soul.— 


LXXXV. 

Sylla  was  first  of  victors ;  but  our  own 
Ine  sagest  of  usurpers,  Cromwell ;  he 
Too  swept  off  senates  while  he  hew'd  the  throne 
Down  to  a  block — inunortal  rebel !    See    r 
What  crimes  it  costs  to  be  a  moment  free 
And  famous  through  all  ages !  b*it  beneath 
His  fate  the  moral  lurks  of  destiny ; 
His  day  of  double  victory  and  death  lireath. 

Beheld  him  win  two  reaims,  and,  happier,  yield  his 

LXXXVI. 

The  third  of  the  same  moon  whose  former  coune 
Had  all  but  crown'd  him,  on  the  selfsame  day 
Deposed  him  gently  from  his  throne  of  force, 
And  laid  him  with  the  earth's  preceding  clay.* 
And  show'd  not  Fortune  thus  how  fame  and  sway. 
And  ail  we  deem  delightful,  and  consume 
Our  souls  to  compass  through  each  arduous  way. 
Are  in  her  eyes  less  happy  than  the  tomb? 
Were  they  but  so  in  man's,  how  diflerent  were  his 
doom! 

LXXXVII. 

Aivd  thou,  dread  statue !  yet  existent  in^ 
The  austerest  form  of  naked  majesty. 
Thou  who  beheldest,  'mid  the  assassins'  din, 
At  thy  bathed  base  the  bloody  CiBsar  lie. 
Folding  his  robe  in  dying  dignity. 
An  offering  to  thine  altar  from  the  queen 
Of  gods  and  men,  great  Nemesis !  did  he  die, 
And  thou,  too,  perish,  Pompey?  have  ye  been 
Victors  of  countless  kings,  or  puppets  of  a  scene  ? 

LXXXVIII. 

And  thou,  the  thunder-stricken  nurse  of  Rome  !* 
She-wolf !  whose  brazen -imaged  dugs  impart 
The  milk  of  conquest  yet  wiUiiu  the  dome 
Where,  as  a  mouument  of  antique  art. 
Thou  standest : — Mother  of  the  mighty  heart. 
Which  the  great  founder  suck'd  from  thy  wild  teat, 
Scorch'd  by  the  Roman  Jove's  ethereal  dart. 
And  thy  limbs  black  with  lightning— dost  thou  yet 
Guard  thine   immortal   cubs,  nor  thy  fond   charge 
forget? 

LXXXIX. 

Thou  dost ; — ^but  all  thy  foster-babes  are  dead — 
The  men  of  iron ;  and  the  world  hath  rear'd 
Cities  from  out  their  sepulchres :  men  bled 
In  imitation  of  the  things  they  fear'd,  [steer'd. 

And  fought  and  conquer'd,  and  the  same  course 
At  apish  distance ;  but  as  yet  none  have. 
Nor  could,  the  same  supremacy  have  near'd. 
Save  one  vain  man,  who  is  not  in  the  grave. 
But,  vanquish'd  by  himself,  to  his  own  slaves  a  slave— 


ISS 


["Sei^eur,  vous  changez  toutes  mes  idies  dc  la  fa^on 
dont  le  vous  vois  agir.  Je  croyais  que  vous  aviez  de 
I'ambition,  mais  aucune  amour  pour  la  gloire :  je  voyais 
bien  que  votre  &me  itait  haute ;  mais  je  ne  soup^on- 
nais  pas  qu*elle  fut  grande.'*— i>ialo^e«  de  Sylla  et  ifEw 
cratt.] 

a  On  the  3d  of  September  Cromwell  gamed  the  victory  of 
Dunbar:  a  year  afterwards  he  obtained  "his  crowning 
mercy"  of  Worcester ;  and  a  few  years  after,  on  the  same 
day,  which  he  had  ever  esteemed  the  roost  fortunate  for 
him,  died. 

4, »  See  Appendix,  »*  Historical  Notes,"  Nos.  xxrv.  xxv 


BYRONnS  WORKS. 


Canto  rv. 


XC. 

Tlie  fool  of  fitlse  dominion— and  a  kind 
Of  bastard  CaBsar,  following  him  of  old 
With  steps  unequal ;  for  the  Roman's  mind 
Was  Aiodell'd  m  a  lees  terrestrial  mould,* 
With  passions  fiercer,  yet  a  judgment  cold, 
And  an  immortal  instinct  which  redeemed 
The  frailties  of  a  heart  so  soft,  yet  bold. 
Alcides  with  the  distaff  now  he  seem'd 
At  Cleopatra's  feet« — and  now  himself  he  beam'd« 

XCI. 

And  came— and  saw — and  conquered !  But  the  man 
Who  would  have  tamed  his  eagles  down  to  flee. 
Like  a  train'd  falcon,  in  the  Gallic  van, 
Which  he,  in  sooth,  loug  led  to  victory, 
With  a  deaf  heart  which  never  seem'd  to  be 
A  listener  to  itself,  was  strangely  framed ; 
With  but  one  weakest  weakness — ^vanity, 
Coquettish  in  ambition—still  he  aim'd — 
At  what?  can  he  avouch— or  answer  what  he  daim'd? 

XCIL 

And  would  be  all  or  nothing — nor  could  wait 
For  the  sure  grave  to  level  him ;  few  yean 
Had  fix*d  him  with  the  CcBsan  in  his  fato, 
On  whom  we  tread :  For  this  the  conqueror  rears 
The  arch  of  triumph !  and  for  this  the  tears 
And  blood  of  earth  flow  on  as  they  have  flow'd, 
A  universal  deluge,  which  appears 
Without  an  ark  for  wretched  man's  abode, 
And  ebbs  but  to  reflow ! — Renew  thy  rainbow,  God ! 

XCIII. 

What  from  this  barren  being  do  we  reap? 
Our  senses  narrow,  and  our  reason  frail,' 
Life  short,  and  truth  a  gem  which  loves  the  deep, 
Aud  aU  things  weighed  in  custom's  falsest  scale ; 
(Opinion  an  omnipotence, — whose  veil 
Mantles  the  earth  with  darkness,  until  right 
And  wrong  are  accidents,  and  men  grow  pale 
Lest  their  own  judgments  should  become  too  bright. 
And  their  free  thoughts  be  crimes,  and  earth  have 
too  much  light 

XCIV. 

And  thus  they  plod  in  sluggish  misery, 
Rotting  from  sire  to  son,  Sad  age  to  age, 
Proud  of  their  trampled  nature,  and  so  die, 
Bequeathing  their  hereditary  rage 
To  the  new  race  of  inborn  slaves,  who  wage 
War  for  their  chains,  and  rather  than  be  free. 
Bleed  gladiator-like,  and  still  engage 
Within  the  same  arena  viiere  they  see 
Tlieir  fellows  fall  before,  like  «%ves  of  the  same  tree. 

xcv. 

I  speak  not  of  men's  creeds — they  rest  between 
Man  and  his  Maker — but  of  things  allow'd, 
Averr*d,  and  known, — and  daily,  hourly  i 
The  yoke  that  is  upon  us  doubly  bow'd, 
And  the  intent  of  tyranny  avow'd, 


I  See  Appendix,  <*  Historical  Notes,**  No.  xxti. 

» ^^ —  "  Oinnes  penc  vetercs ;  qui  nihil  cog- 

nosci,  nihil  percepi,  nihil  sciri  posse  dixenint ;  angustos 
sensus ;  imbedllos  aniinos,  brevia  curricula  riue ;  in  pro- 
fundo  veritatem  demersam ;  opinionibus  et  iiistitutis  omnia 
teneri ;  nihil  ventati  relinqui :  deinceps  omnia  tenebris 
orcumfusa  esse  dixenint.**    Academ.  1. 13.    The  eighteen 


Tlie  edict  of  Earth's  mien,  who  are  grown 
Tlie  apes  of  him  who  humbled  once  &e  proud. 
And  shook  them  from  their  slumbers  on  the  throne ; 
Too  glorious,  were  this  aU  his  mighty  arm  had  done. 

XCVL 

Can  tyrants  but  bv  tyrants  conquered  be, 
And  Freedom  find  no  champion  and  no  child 
Such  as  Columbia  saw  arise  when  she 
Sprung  forth  a  Pallas,  arm'd  and  uudefiled  ? 
Or  must  such  minds  be  nourish'd  hi  the  wild. 
Deep  in  the  unpruned  forest^  'midst  the  roar 
Of  cataracts,  where  nursing  Nature  smiled 
On  mfant  Washington  ?    Has  Earth  no  more 
Such  seeds  withm  her  breast,  or  Europe   no  such 
? 


XCVIL 

But  France  got  drunk  with  blood  to  vomit  crime, 
And  fatal  have  her  Saturnalia  been 
To  Freedom's  cause,  in  every  age  and  clime ; 
Because  the  deadly  days  which  we  have  seen. 
And  vile  Ambition,  that  built  up  between 
Man  and  his  hopes  an  adamantine  wall, 
And  the  base  pageant  last  upon  the  scene, 
Are  grown  the  pretext  for  the  eternal  thrall 
Which  nips  life's  tree,  and  dooms  man's  worst— .<iis 
second  fall 

XCVIIL 

Yet,  Freedom !  yet  thy  banner,  torn,  but  flying. 
Streams  like  the  thunder-storm  against  the  whid ; 
Thy  trumpet  voice,  though  broken  now  and  dying. 
The  loudest  still  the  tempest  leaves  behind ; 
Thy  tree  hath  lost  its  blossoms,  aud  the  rind, 
Chopp'd  by  the  axe,  looks  rough  and  little  worth. 
But  the  sap  lasts, — aud  still  the  seed  we  find 
Sown  deep,  even  in  the  bosom  of  the  North ; 
So  shall  a  bettor  spring  less  bitter  fruit  bring  forth. 

XCIX. 

Tliere  is  a  stem  round  tower  of  other  days,* 
Firm  as  a  fortress,  with  its  fence  of  stone, 
Such  as  an  army's  baffled  strength  delays. 
Standing  with  half  its  battlements  alone. 
And  wiu  two  thousand  years  of  ivy  grown. 
The  gariand  of  eternity,  where  wave 
The  green  leaves  over  all  by  time  o'erthrown ; — 
What  was  this  tower  of  strength  ?  within  its  cave 
What  treasure  lay  so  lock'd,  so  hid? — A  woman's 
grave. 

C. 
But  who  was  she,  the  lady  of  the  dead, 
Tomb'd  in  a  palace?   Was  she  chaste  and  fair? 
Worthy  a  king's— or  more — a  Roman's  bed  ? 
What  race  of  chiefs  and  heroes  did  she  bear? 
What  daughter  of  her  beauties  was  the  heir?    [not 
How  lived— how  loved — how  died  she  ?    Was  she 
So  'lonor'd — and  conspicuously  there, 
Where  meaner  relics  must  not  dare  to  rot. 
Placed  to  commemorate  a  more  than  mortal  lot? 


L. 


J_ 


hundred  years  which  have  elapsed  since  Cicero  wrote  this, 
have  not  removed  any  of  the  imperfections  of  humanitv , 
and  the  complaints  of  the  ancient  philosophers  may,  with- 
out injustice  or  affectation,  be  transcribed  in  a  poem  writ* 
ten  yesterday 

*  Alluding  to  the  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella,  called  Capo  th. 
Bove.    See  **  Historical  lUustraUons,*' p.  SOO. 


Canto  nr. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


69 


Ct 

Was  she  as  those  who  lore  their  lords,  or  they 
Who  lore  the  lords  of  others?  such  have  been 
Ercn  in  the  olden  time,  Rome's  annals  say. 
Was  she  a  matron  of  Cornelia's  mien, 
Or  the  light  air  of  Egypt's  graceful  queen, 
Profuse  &[  joy — or  'gainst  it  did  she  war, 
Inreterate  in  rirtue?  Did  rfie  lean 
To  the  soft  side  of  the  heart,  or  wisely  bar 

Lore  from  amongst  her  griefs  ?— for  such  the  auctions 
are. 

CII. 
Perchance  she  died  in  youth :  it  may  be,  bcm'd 
With  woes  far  heavier  than  the  ponderous  tomb 
That  weigh'd  upon  her  gentle  dust,  a  clond 
Might  gather  o'er  her  beauty,  and  a  gloom 
In  her  dark  eye,  prophetic  of  the  doom 
Heaven  gives  its  favorites— early  death ;  yet  shed' 
A  sunset  charm  around  her,  and  Ulnme 
With  hectic  light,  the  Hesperus  of  the  dead, 

Of  her  consuming  cheek  the  autumnal  leaf-like  red. 

CIIL 

Perchance  she  died  in  age— surviving  all. 
Charms,  kindred,  children — ^with  the  silver  gray 
On  her  long  tresses,  which  might  yet  recall, 
It  may  be,  still  a  something  of  the  day 
When  they  were  braided,  and  her  proud  array 
And  lovely  form  were  envied,  praised,  and  eyed 
By  Rome. — But  whither  would  Conjecture  stray? 
Thus  much  alone  we  know — Metella  died. 
The  wealthiest  Roman's  wife :  Behold  his  love  or  pride ! 

CIV. 

I  know  not  why — but  standing  thus  by  thee 
It  seems  as  if  I  had  thine  inmate  known. 
Thou  Tomb !  and  other  days  come  back  on  me 
With  recollected  music,  though  the  tone 
Is  changed  and  solemn,  like  tiie  cloudy  groan 
Of  dying  thunder  on  the  distant  wind ; 
Yet  comd  I  seat  me  by  this  ivied  s^ne 
Tin  I  had  bodied  forth  the  heated  mind 
Forais  from  the  floating  wreck  which  Rnim  leaves 
behind-* 

CV. 
And  from  the  ptenks,  far  shattered  o'er  the  loeks. 
Built  me  a  little  bark  of  hope,  once  more 
To  battle  with  the  ocean  and  the  shocks 
Of  the  loud  fareaken,  and  the  ceaseless  roar 
Which  rushes  on  the  solitary  shore 


Td  yip  ^a^tiv  oiK  alvxp^v,  iAX*  alvxfi^  SamSv. 

Rich.  Fran.  Phil.  Brunck.  Poets  Onomid, 
p.  231,  ed.  1784. 

*  [Four  words,  and  two  initials,  compose  the  whole  of  the 
mscrtption  which,  whatever  was  its  ancient  position,  is  now 
placea  in  fh>nt  of  this  towering  sepulchre :  Cscilix  .  Q . 
CiBTici .  F  .  Mktbll/B  .  Cbassi.  It  is  more  likely  to  have 
^n,  the  pride  than  the  love  of  Crassus,  which  raised  so 
sap^rb  a  memorial  to  a  wife,  whose  name  is  not  mentioned 
in  history,  unless  she  be  supposed  to  be  that  lady  whose 
intimacy  with  Dolabella  was  so  offensive  to  Tullia,  the 
<uugfater  of  Cicero ;  or  she  who  was  divorced  by  Lentulua 
^pintber ;  or  she,  perhaps  the  same  person,  firom  whose  ear 
us  son  of  iSscmus  transferred  a  precious  jewel  to  enrich 
Bis  daaghter.~HoBHOUBB.J 

*  The  Palatine  is  one  mass  of  ruins,  particularly  on  the 
m  towards  the  Circus  Maximus.  The  very  soil  is  formed 
of  cnunbled  brickwork.  Nothing  has  been  told,  nothing 
o&  be  told,  to  satisfy  the  belief  of  any  but  a  Roman  anti- 
Wt.  See  "  Historical  Illustrations,**  p.  806.— (**  The  voice 
of  Marios  could  not  sound  more  deep  and  solemn  among 
te  nuDsd  arebes  of  Carthage,  than  the  strains  of  the  Pilgrim 


Where  all  lies  founder'd  that  was  ever  dear : 
But  could  I  gather  from  the  vmve-wom  store 
Enough  for  my  rude  boat,  where  should  I  Bleor? 

Iliere  woos  no  home,  nor  hope,  nor  life,  save  what  is 
here. 

CVI. 
Then  let  the  winds  howl  on !  their  harmony 
Shall  henceforth  be  my  music,  and  the  night 
The  sound  shall  temper  with  the  owlets'  cry. 
As  I  now  hear  them,  in  the  fading  light 
Dim  o'er  the  bird  of  darkness'  native  site, 
Answering  each  other  on  the  Palatine, 
With  their  large  eyes,  all  glistening  gray  and  bright. 
And  sailing  pinions. — Upon  such  a  shrine 

What  are  our  petty  griefii? — let  me  not  number  mine 

CVIL 

Cypress  and  ivy,  weed  and  wallflower  grown 
Matted  and  mass'd  together,  hillocks  heap'd 
On  what  were  chambers,  arch  crush'd,  column  strown 
In  fragments,  choked  np  vaults,  and  frescoes  steepM 
In  sulHerranean  damps,  where  the  owl  peep'd. 
Deeming  it  midnight: — ^Temples,  baths,  or  halls? 
Pronounce  who  can ;  for  all  that  Learning  reap'd 
From  her  research  hath  been,  that  tliese  are  walls — 
Behold  the  Imperial  Mount !  'tis  thus  the  mighty  falls.* 

OVIIL 

There  is  the  moral  of  all  human  tales  ;* 
'Tis  but  the  same  rehearsal  of  the  past. 
First  Freedom,  and  then  Glory — when  that  fails, 
Wealth,  vice,  corruption, — ^barbarism  at  last 
And  History,  with  all  her  volumes  vast. 
Hath  but  one  page, — ^'tis  better  written  here. 
Where  gorgeous  Tyranny  hath  thus  amass'd 
All  treasures,  all  delights,  that  eye  or  ear. 

Heart,  soul  could  seek,  tongue  ask — Away  with  words 
draw  near, 

CIX. 
Admire,  exult— despise — laugh,  weep, — ^for  here 
There  is  such  matter  for  all  feeling: — Man ! 
Thou  pendulum  betwixt  a  smile  and  tear. 
Ages  and  reahns  are  crowded  in  this  span, 
This  mountain,  whose  obliterated  plan 
The  pyramid  of  empires  pinnacled. 
Of  Glory's  gewgaws  shining  in  the  van 
Till  the  SUITS  rays  with  added  flame  were  fill'd ! 

Where  are  its  golden  roofs?  where  those  who  dared  to 
buildl 


amid  the  broken  shrines  and  fallen  statues  of  her  subduer.** 
— SiB  Waltbb  Scott.  J 

*  The  author  of  the  Life  of  Cicero,  speakinR  of  the 
opinion  entertained  of  Britain  by  that  orator  and  his  co- 
temporary  Romans*  has  the  following  eloqaent  passage  :— 
♦*  From  tneir  railleries  of  this  kind,  on  the  barbarity  and 
misery  of  our  island,  one  cannot  help  reflecting  on  the 
surpnsing  fate  and  revolutions  of  kingdoms ;  how  Rome, 
once  the  mistress  of  the  world,  the  seat  of  arts,  empire, 
and  glory,  now  lies  sunk  in  sloth,  ignorance,  and  poverty, 
enslaved  to  the  most  cruel  as  well  as  to  the  noost  con- 
temptible of  tyrants,  superstition  and  religious  imposture ; 
while  this  remote  country,  anciently  the  jest  and  contempt 
of  the  polite  Romans,  is  become  tne  happy  seat  of  liberty, 
plenty,  and  letters ;  flourishing  in  all  the  arts  and  refine- 
ments of  civil  life ;  yet  running  perhaps  the  same  course 
which  Rome  itself  had  run  before  it,  from  virtuous  in- 
dustry to  wealth ;  from  wealth  to  luxury ;  from  luxury  to 
an  impatience  of  discipline,  and  corruption  of  morals : 


till,  by  a  total  degeneracv  and  loss  of  virtue,  being  grown 
ripe  for  destruction,  it  fall  a  prey  at  last  to  some  hardy  op- 
pressor, and,  with  the  loss  ofliberty,  losing  every  thing  that 
18  valuable,  sinks  gradually  asain  into  its  original  bar 
barism.**  (See  History  of  the  Life  of  M.  Tullius  Cicero, 
sect  vi.  VOL  iu  p.  103.) 


64 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  ir. 


ex. 

Tully  was  not  so  eloquent  as  thon, 
Thou  namelefls  column  wrtJi  the  buried  base  I 
What  are  the  laurels  of  the  CaBar*8  brow? 
Crown  me  with  ivy  from  his  dwelling-place. 
Whose  arch  or  pillar  meets  me  in  the  face, 
Titus  or  Trajan's?  No — 'tis  that  of  Time  : 
Trtiunphy  arch,  pillar,  all  he  doth  displace 
Scoffini^ ;  and  apostolic  statues  climb 
To  crush  the  imperial  nm,  whose  ashes  slept  sub- 
lime,^ 

CXI. 

Buried  in  air,  the  deep  blue  sky  of  Rome, 
And  looking  to  the  stars :  they  had  contain'd 
A  spirit  which  with  these  would  find  a  home, 
The  last  of  those  who  o'er  the  whole  earth  reign'd, 
The  Roman  globe,  for  after  none  sustained. 
But  yielded  back  his  conquests : — he  was  more 
Than  a  mere  Alexander,  and,  unstain'd 
With  household  Mood  and  wine,  serenely  wore 
His  sovereign  virtues— still  we  Trajan's  name  adore.* 

CXII. 

Where  is  the  rock  of  Triumph,  the  high  place 
Where   Rome  embraced  her  heroes?   where  the 

steep 
Tarpeian  ?  fittest  goal  of  Treason's  race. 
The  promontory  whence  the  Traitor's  Leap 
Cured  all  ambition.     Did  the  conquerors  heap 
Their  spoils  here  ?    Yes ;  and  in  yon  field  below, 
A  thousand  years  of  silenced  factions  sleep — 
The  Forum,  where  the  immortal  accents  glow, 
And  still  the  eloquent  air  breathes — ^bums  wiu  Cicero ! 

CXIII. 

The  field  of  freedom,  faction,  fame,  and  blood : 
Here  a  proud  people's  passions  were  exhaled, 
From  the  first  hour  of  empire  in  the  bud 
To  that  when  further  worids  to  conquer  fail'd ; 
But  long  before  had  Freedom's  face  been  veil'd, 
And  Anarchy  assumed  her  attributes ; 
Till  every  lawless  soldier  who  assail'd 
Trod  on  the  trembling  senate's  slavish  mutes. 
Or  raised  the  venal  voice  of  baser  prostitutes. 

CXIV. 

Then  turn  we  to  her  latest  tribune's  name. 
From  her  ten  thousand  tyrants  turn  to  thee, 
Redeemer  of  dark  centuries  of  shame — 
The  friend  of  Petrarch — hope  of  Italy — 
Rienzi !  last  of  Romans  !*  While  the  tree 
Of  freedom's  wither'd  trunk  puts  forth  a  leaf. 
Even  for  thy  tomb  a  garland  let  it  be— 
The  forum's  champion,  and  the  people's  chief — 
Her  new-bom  Numa  thou — with  reign,  alas  I  too  briet 


» The  column  of  Tr^an  is  surmounted  by  St.  Peter ;  that 
of  Aurelius  by  St.  Paul.  See  "  Historical  Illustrations.'* 
p.  214.  ^ 

3  Tnjnn  was  proverbiaUit  the  best  of  the  Roman  princes, 
;Eutrop.  1.  viii.  c.  & ;)  and  it  would  be  easier  to  find  a  sove- 
reign unitinx  exactly  the  opposite  characteiistics,  than  one 
possessed  of  all  the  happy  quaUties  ascribed  to  this  emperor. 
"  When  he  mounted  the  throne,"  says  the  historian  Dion, 
"  he  was  strong  in  body,  he  was  rigorous  in  mind ;  age  had 
impaired  none  of  his  faculties ;  he  was  altogether  free  from 
envy  and  from  detraction :  he  honored  all  me  good,  and  he 
advanced  them ;  and  on  this  account  they  cotud  not  be  the 


CXV. 

Egeria !  sweet  creation  of  some  heart* 
Which  found  no  mortal  resting-place  so  fair 
As  thine  ideal  breast ;  whate'er  thou  art 
Or  wert, — a  young  Aurora  of  the  air, 
The  nympholepsy  of  some  fond  despair ; 
Or,  it  might  be,  a  beauty  of  the  earth. 
Who  found  a  more  than  conmion  votary  there 
Too  much  adoring ;  whatsoe'er  thy  biith, 
Thon  wert  a  beautiful  thought,  and  sofUy  bodied  forth. 

CXVI. 

The  mosses  of  thy  fountain  still  are  sprinkled 
With  thine  Elysian  water-drops ;  the  face 
Of  thy  cave-guarded  spring,  with  years  unwrinkled. 
Reflects  the  meek -eyed  genius  of  the  place, 
Whose  green,  wild  margin  now  no  more  erase 
Art's  works ;  nor  must  the  delicate  waters  sleep, 
Prisou'd  in  marble,  bubbltug  from  the  base 
Of  the  cleft  statue,  with  a  gentie  leap 
The  rill  runs  o'er,  and  round,  fern,  flowers,  and  ivy, 
creep, 

CXVII. 

Fantastically  tangled :  the  green  hills 
Are  clothed  with  early  bloesoms,  through  the  gnm 
The  quick-eyed  lizard  rustics,  and  tiie  bills 
Of  summer-birds  sing  welcome  as  ye  pass ; 
Flowers  fresh  in  hue,  and  many  in  their  class, 
Implore  the  pausiug  step,  and  with  their  dyes 
Dance  in  the  soft  breeze  in  a  fairy  mass ; 
The  sweetness  of  the  violet's  deep  blue  eyes, 
Kiss'd  by  the  breath  of  heaven,  seems  color'd  by  its 
skies. 

cxvni. 

Here  didst  thou  dwell,  in  this  enchanted  cover, 
Egeria !  thy  all-heaveuly  bosom  beating 
For  the  far  footsteps  of  thy  mortal  lover ; 
The  purple  Midnight  veil'd  that  mystic  meeting 
With  her  most  starry  canopy,  and  seating 
Thyself  by  thine  adorer,  what  befell? 
This  cave  was  surelv  shaped  out  for  the  greeting 
Of  an  enamored  Gkxideas,  and  the  cell 
Haimted  by  holy  Love — the  earliest  oracle  I 

CXIX. 

And  didst  thon  not,  thy  breast  to  his  replymg. 
Blend  a  celestial  with  a  human  heart ; 
And  Love,  which  dies  as  it  was  bom,  in  sighing, 
Share  with  immortal  transports?  could  thine  art 
Make  them  indeed  inmiortal,  and  impart 
Tlie  purity  of  heaven  to  earthly  joys. 
Expel  the  venom  and  not  blunt  the  dart — 
The  dull  satiety  which  all  destroys — 
And  root  from  out  the  soul  tiie  deadly  weed  which 
cloys? 


objects  of  his  fear,  or  of  his  hate  ;  he  never  listened  to  in- 
formers: he  gave  not  way  to  his  anger;  he  abstained 
equally  from  unfair  exactions  and  unjust  punishments ;  he 
had  rather  be  loved  as  a  man  than  honored  as  a  sovereign : 
he  was  affable  with  his  people,  respectful  to  the  senate,  and 
universally  beloved  by  both ;  be  inspired  none  with  dread 
but  the  enemies  of  his  country."— Hist.  Rom.  1.  Ixiii.  c.  «,  7. 

*  The  name  and  exploits  of  Rienzi  must  be  familiar  to  the 
reader  of  Gibbon.  Some  details  and  unedited  manuscripts, 
relative  to  this  unhappy  hero,  will  be  seen  in  the  ♦*  Historical 
Illustrations  of  the  Fourth  Canto,"  p.  S48. 

«  See  Appendix,  "  Historical  Notes,"  No.  xxvn. 


Canto  iv. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


65 


CXX. 

Alifl .  our  young  aflTections  mn  to  waste, 
Or  water  bat  the  desert ;  whence  ariee 
Bat  weeds  of  dark  luxuriance ,  tares  of  haste* 
Rank  at  the  core,  though  templing  to  the  eyes, 
Flowers  whose  wild  odors  breathe  but  agonies. 
And  trees  whose  gams  are  poison ;  such  the  plants 
Which  spring  beneath  her  steps  as  Passion  flies 
0*er  the  world's  wiidemesB,  and  vainly  pants 
For  some  celestial  fruit  forbidden  to  our  wants. 

CXXI. 

Oh  Love !  no  habitant  of  earth  thou  art — 
An  unseen  seraph,  we  believe  in  thee, 
A  faith  whose  martyrs  are  the  broken  heart, 
Bat  never  yet  hath  seen,  nor  e*er  shall  see 
The  naked  eye,  thy  form,  as  it  should  be ; 
The  mind  hath  made  thee,  as  it  peopled  heaven, 
Even  with  its  own  desiring  phantasy. 
And  to  a  thought  such  shape  and  image  given. 
As  haunts  the  unquench'd  soul — parch*dk-wearied 
— ^wrung — and  riven. 

CXXII. 

Of  its  own  beauty  is  the  mind  diseased. 
And  fevers  into  false  creation : — ^where. 
Where  are  the  forms  the  sculptor's  soul  hath  seized? 
In  him  akme.    Can  Nature  show  so  fair? 
Where  are  the  charms  and  virtues  which  we  dare 
Conceive  in  boyhood  and  pursue  as  men. 
The  unreached  Paradise  of  our  despair. 
Which  o*er-informs  the  pencil  and  the  pen, 
And  overpowers  the  page  where  it  would  bloom  again  ? 

CXXIII. 

Who  loves,  raves — ^*tis  youth's  phrensy — but  the  cure 
Is  bitterer  still ;  as  charm  by  charm  unwinds 
Which  robed  our  idols,  and  we  see  too  sure 
Nor  worth  nor  beauty  dwells  from  out  the  mind's 
Ideal  diape  of  sach ;  yet  still  it  binds 
The  fatal  spell,  and  stQl  it  draws  us  on. 
Reaping  the  whiriwind  from  the  oft-sown  winds ; 
The  stubborn  heart,  its  alchemy  begun, . 

Seems  ever  near  the  prize, — ^wealthiest  when  most 
undone. 

CXXIV. 
We  wither  from  our  youth,  we  gasp  away — 
Sick— sick ;  unfound  the  boon — unslaked  the  thirst. 
Though  to  the  last,  in  verge  of  our  decay. 
Some  phantom  lares,  such  as  we  sought  at  first — 
But  all  too  late,— «o  are  we  doubly  cursed. 
Love,  fam  >,  ambition,  avarice — 'tis  the  same, 
Each  idle— and  all  ill — ^and  none  the  worst — 
For  all  are  meteors  with  a  different  name. 

And  Death  the  wble  smoke  where  vanishes  the  flame. 

cxxv. 

Few — non»— hnd  what  they  love  or  could  have  loved, 
Though  accident,  blind  contact,  and  the  strong 
Necessity  of  loving,  have  removed 
Antipathies — but  to  recur,  ere  long. 


**'At  all  e  rents,**  says  the  author  of  the  Academical 
Questions,  "  I  trust,  wbaterer  mav  be  the  fate  of  my  own 
■peculations,  that  philosophy  will  regain  that  estimation 
which  it  onght  to  possess.  The  free  and  philorophic  spirit 
of  our  nation  has  been  the  theme  of  admiration  to  the  world. 
This  was  the  proud  distinction  of  Englishmen,  and  the  lu- 
minotiB  source  of  all  their  glory.  Shall  we  then  forget  the 
ounly  and  dignified  sentiments  of  our  ancestors,  to  prate  in 
toe  language  of  the  mother  or  the  nurse  about  our  good  okl 


Envenom'd  with  urevocable  wrong ; 
And  Circumstance,  that  unq>iritual  god 
And  miscreator,  makes  and  helps  along 
Our  commg  evils  with  a  crutch-like  rod. 

Whose  touch  turns  Hope  to  dust, — tlie  dust  we  all  have 
trod. 

CXXVI. 
Our  life  is  a  false  nature — 'tis  not  m 
The  harmony  of  things, — ^this  hard  decree, 
This  uneradicuble  taint  of  sin. 
This  boundless  upas,  this  all-blasting  tree. 
Whose  root  is  earth,  whose  leaves  fmd  branches  be 
The  skies  which  rain  their  plagues  on  men  like  dew — 
Disease,  death,  bondage — all  the  woes  we  see— 
And   worse,  the  woes  we  see  not — ^whioh  throb 
through 

The  immedicable  soul,  with  heart-aches  ever  new. 

CXXVII. 

Yet  let  us  ponder  boldly — 'tis  a  base* 
Abandonment  of  reason  to  resign 
Our  right  of  thought— our  last  and  only  place 
Of  refuge ;  this,  at  least,  shall  still  be  mine : 
Though  from  our  buth  the  faculty  divme 
Is  choiuM  and  tortured — cabin'd,  cribb'd,  confined, 
And  bred  in  darkness,  lest  the  truth  should  shine 
Too  brightly  on  the  uuprepared  muid,  [blind. 

The  beam  pours  in,  for  time  and  skill  will  couch  the 

GXXVIII. 

Arches  on  arches !  as  it  were  that  Rome, 
Collecting  the  chief  trophies  of  her  line, 
Would  build  up  all  her  triumphs  in  one  dome. 
Her  Coliseum  stands ;  the  moonbeams  shine 
As  'twere  its  natural  torches,  for  divine 
Should  be  the  Ught  which  streams  hero,  to  illume 
This  long-explored  but  still  exhaustless  mine 
Of  contemplation ;  and  the  azure  gloom 
Of  an  Italian  night,  where  the  deep  skies  assume 

CXXIX. 

Hues  which  have  words,  and  speak  to  ye  of  heaven, 
Floats  o'er  this  vast  and  wondrous  monument. 
And  shadows  forth  its  glory.    There  is  given 
Unto  the  thmgs  of  earUi,  which  Tone  hath  bent, 
A  spirit's  feeling,  and  where  he  hath  leant 
His  hand,  but  l^ke  his  scythe,  there  is  a  power 
And  magic  in  the  ruin'd  battlement. 
For  which  the  palace  of  the  present  hour 
Must  yield  its  pomp,  and  wait  tUl  ages  are  its  dower. 

cxxx. 

Oh  Time !  the  beautifier  of  the  dead, 
Adomer  of  the  ruin,  comforter 
And  only  healer  when  the  heart  hath  bled — 
Time !  Uie  corrector  where  our  judgments  err. 
The  test  of  truth,  love, — sole  philosopher. 
For  all  beside  are  sophists,  from  thy  thrift. 
Which  never  loses  though  it  doth  defer — 
Time,  the  avenger !  unto  thee  I  lift  [gift 

My  hands,  and  eyes,  and  heart,  and  crave  of  thee  a 


prejudices  ?  This  is  not  the  way  to  defend  the  cause  of 
truth  It  was  not  thus  that  our  fathers  maintained  it  in  the 
brilliant  periods  of  our  history.  I*rejudice  may  be  trusted 
to  guard  the  outworks  for  a  short  space  ol  time,  while  reason 
slumbers  in  the  citadel ;  but  if  the  latter  sink  into  a  lethargy, 
the  former  will  quickly  erect  a  standard  for  herself.  Phi- 
losophy, wisdom,  and  liberty  support  each  other :  he  who 
will  not  reason  is  a  bigot ;  he  who  cannot,  is  a  fool ;  and  tie 
who  dares  not,  is  a  slave.''    Vol.  L  pref^  pp.  14, 15 


66 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Camto  it. 


CXXXI. 

Amidst  this  wreck,  where  thou  hast  made  a  shrine 
Aud  temple  more  divinely  desolate, 
Among  thy  mightier  offerings  here  are  mine, 
Ruius  of  years — ^thoagh  few,  yet  full  of  fate : — 
If  thou  hast  ever  seen  me  too  elate. 
Hear  me  not ;  but  if  calmly  I  have  borne 
Good,  and  reserved  my  pride  against  the  hate 
Which  shall  not  whelm  me,  let  me  not  have  worn 
This  iron  in  my  soul  in  vain— shall  they  not  mourn  7 

CXXXII. 

And  thon,  who  never  yet  of  human  wrong 
Left  the  unbalanced  scale,  great  Nemesis  !* 
Here,  where  the  ancient  paid  thee  homage  long — 
Thou,  who  didst  call  the  Furies  from  the  abyss, 
And  round  Orestes  bade  them  howl  and  hiss 
For  that  unnatural  retribution — just, 
Had  it  but  been  from  hands  leas  near — hi  this 
Thy  former  reahn,  I  call  thee  from  the  dust  I    [must 
Dost  thou  not  hear  ray  Leart? — Awake !  thou  shalt,  and 

CXXXIIL 

It  is  not  that  I  may  not  have  incurr'd 

For  my  ancestral  faults  or  mine  the  wound 

I  bleed  withal,  and,  had  it  been  conferred 

With  a  just  weapon,  it  had  flow*d  unbound ; 

But  now  my  blood  shall  not  sink  in  the  ground ; 

To  the^^  I  do  devote  it — thou  shalt  take 

The  vengeance,  which  shall  yet  be  sought  aud  found, 

Which  if  /  have  not  taken  for  the  sake 

But  let  that  pass-^I  sleep,  but  thou  shalt  yet  awake. 

CXXXIV. 

And  if  my  voice  break  forth,  'tis  not  that  now 
I  shrink  from  what  is  8ufier*d :  let  him  speak 
Who  hath  beheld  decline  upon  my  brow, 
Or  seen  my  mind's  convulsion  leave  it  weak ; 
But  in  this  page  a  record  will  I  seek. 
Not  in  the  air  shall  these  my  words  disperse, 
Though  I  be  ashes ;  a  far  hour  shall  wreak 
The  deep  prophetic  fuhieas  of  this  verse, 
And  pile  on  human  heads  the  mountain  of  my  cnise ! 

cxxxv. 

That  curse  shall  be  Forgiveness. — Have  I  not — 
Hear  me,  my  mother  Earth !  behold  it.  Heaven  !— 
Have  I  not  had  to  wrestle  with  my  lot? 
Have  I  not  suffered  things  to  be  forgiven? 
Have  I  not  had  my  brain  sear'd,  my  heart  riven, 
Hopes  sapp'd,  name  blighted.  Life's  life  lied  away  ? 
And  only  not  to  desperation  driven. 
Because  not  altogether  of  such  clay 
As  rots  into  the  soms  of  those  whom  I  survey. 

CXXXVL 

From  mighty  wrongs  to  petty  perfidy 

Have  I  not  seen  what  human  thmgs  could  do? 


1  See  Appendix,  "Historical  Notes,"  No.  zxviii. 

I  [Between  stanzas  cxxxv.  and  cxxxvi.  we  find  in  the 
original  MS.  the  following  :— 

**  If  to  forcive  be  heaping  coals  of  fire— 
At  God  Bath  spoken— on  the  heads  of  foes. 
Mine  should  be  a  volcano,  and  rise  higher 
Than.  o*er  the  Titans  cmsh'd,  Oivmpus  rose. 
Or  Athos  soars,  or  blazing  Etna  glows  :— 
True,  they  who  stung  were  creeping  things ;  but  what 
Than  serpents'  teeth  inflicU  with  deadlier  throes  1 
The  Lion  may  be  goaded  by  the  Gnat.— 

Who  sucks  the  slumberer's  blood?— The  Eagle?— No: 
the  Bat."] 


Frinn  the  loud  roar  of  foaming  calumny 
To  the  small  whisper  of  tlie  as  paltry  feWj 
And  subtler  venom  of  the  reptile  crew. 
The  Janus  glance  of  whose  significant  eyi), 
Learning  to  lie  with  silence,  would  atem  true, 
And  wiUiont  utterance,  save  the  shrug  or  Kigh, 
Deal  round  to  happy  fools  its  speechless  obloquy.' 

CXXXVII. 

But  I  have  lived,  and  have  not  lived  in  vain : 
My  mind  may  lose  its  force,  my  blood  its  fire, 
And  my  frame  perish  even  in  conquering  pain ; 
But  there  is  that  within  me  which  shall  tire 
Torture  and  Time,  and  breathe  when  I  expire ; 
Something  unearthly,  which  they  deem  not  of, 
Like  the  remembered  tone  of  a  mute  lyre, 
Shall  on  their  softened  BfinXa  sink,  and  move 
In  hearts  all  rocky  now  the  late  remorse  of  love. 

CXXXVIIL 

The  seal  is  set — Now  welcome,  thou  dread  power ! 
Nameless,  yet  thus  onmipotent,  which  here 
Walk*st  hi  the  shadow  of  the  midnight  hour 
With  a  deep  awe,  yet  all  distinct  from  fear : 
Thy  haunts  are  ever  where  the  dead  walls  rear 
Their  ivy  mantles,  and  the  solemn  scene 
Derives  from  thee  a  sense  so  deep  and  clear 
That  we  become  a  part  of  what  has  been. 
And  grow  unto  the  spot,  all-seeing  but  unseen. 

CXXXIX. 

And  here  the  buzz  of  eager  nations  ran, 
In  murmured  pity,  or  loud-roared  applause, 
As  man  was  daughter^d  W  his  fellow  man. 
And  wherefore  slaugfater^d  ?  wherefore,  but  because 
Such  were  the  bloody  Circus'  genial  laws, 
And  the  imperial  pleasure. — Wherefore  not? 
What  matters  where  we  fall  to  fill  the  maws 
Of  worms— on  battle-plams  or  listed  spot  7 
Both  are  but  theatres  where  the  chief  actors  rot 

CXL. 

I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie : 
He  leans  upon  his  hand — his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony, 
And  his  droop'd  head  sinks  gradually  low — 
And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one. 
Like  the  firet  m  a  thunder-shower ;  and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him — he  is  gone. 
Ere  ceased  the  mhuman  shout  which  haH'd  the  wretch 
who  WOIL 

CXLI. 
He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not — his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away ;' 
He  reck'd  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize, 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay. 


•Whether  the  wonderful  statue  which  suggested  this 
image  be  a  laquearian  gladiator,  which,  in  spite  of  Winkel- 
mann*8  criticism,  has  been  stoutly  maintained ;  or  whether  it 
be  a  Greek  herald,  as  that  great  antiquary  positively  as- 
serted ;*  or  whether  it  is  to  be  thought  a  Spartan  or  barba 


*  Either  Polifontes,  herald  of  Laius,  killed  by  (Edipos :  or 
Cepreas,  herald  of  Euritheus.  killed  by  the  Athenians  when 
he  endeavored  to  drag  the  Heraclidae  from  the  altar  of 
mercy,  and  in  whose  honor  they  instituted  annual  games, 
continued  to  the  time  of  Hadrian ;  or  Anthemocritus,  the 
Athenian  herald,  killed  by  the  Megarenses,  who  never  r^ 
covered  the  impiety.  See  Storia  delle  Arti,  4cc.  torn,  it 
pag.  903,  SOI.  S05, 800, 207,  lib  ix.  cap.  ii. 


Canto  it. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


67 


There  were  his  young  baibariaus  all  at  play, 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother — he,  their  sire, 
Butcher*d  to  make  a  Roman  holiday — * 
AU  this  rufih'd  with  his  blood — Shall  he  expire 
And  onavenged? — Arise !  ye  Goths,  and  glut  your  ire ! 

CXLII. 
But  here,  where  Murder  breathed  her  bloody  steam ; 
And  here,  where  buzzing  nations  choked  the  ways, 
:       And  roar'd  or  murmur'd  like  a  mountain  stream 
Dadiing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays  ; 
Here,  where  the  I&man  million's  blame  or  praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a  crowd,' 
My  voice  sounds  much — and  fall  the  stars*  fuint  rays 
On  the  arena  void — seats  crush'd — walls  bow*d — 
And  galleries,  where  my  steps  seem  echoes  strangely 
loud. 

CXLUL 

A  rain — ^yet  what  ruin !  from  its  mass 
Walls,  palaces,  half-cities,  have  been  rear'd ; 
Yet  oft  the  enormous  skeleton  ye  pass. 
And  marvel  where  the  spoil  could  have  appeared. 
Hath  it  indeed  been  plundered,  or  but  cleared  7 
Alas !  developed,  opens  the  decay, 
When  the  colossal  fabric's  form  is  near'd : 
It  will  not  bear  the  brightness  of  the  day, 
Which  streams  too  *nuch  on  all  years,  man,  have  reft 
away. 

CXLIV. 

But  when  the  rising  moon  begms  to  climb 
Its  topmost  arch,  and  gently  pauses  there  ; 
When  the  stars  twinkle  through  the  loops  of  time, 
And  tlie  low  night-breeze  waves  along  the  air 
The  gariand-forest,  which  tlie  gray  ^i^lls  wear, 
Like  Taorels  on  the  bald  first  Cesar's  head  f 
When  the  light  shines  serene  but  doth  not  glare, 
llien  in  this  magic  circle  raise  the  dead : 
I  Heroes  have  trod  this  spot — 'tis   on  their  dust  ye 
tread. 

CXLV. 

«  WhOe  stands  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  stand  f 

**  When  falls  the  Coliseum,  Rome  sliaU  fall ; 

**  And  when  Rome  fall»— the  World."    From  our 

own  land 
Thus  spake  the  pilgrims  o'er  this  mighty  wall 
In  Saxon  times,  which  we  are  wont  to  call 
Ancient ;  and  these  three  mortal  things  are  stiD 
On  their  foundations,  and  nualter'd  all ; 


ilsn  shield-bearer,  according  to  the  opinion  of  bis  Italian 
editor ;  it  must  assuredly  seem  a  copy  of  that  masterpiece  of 
Ctesilaus  which  represented  **  a  wounded  man  dying,  who 
perfectly  expressed  what  there  remained  of  life  in  him.^ 
M (utfinicoii  and  MalTei  thou|^t  it  the  identical  statue ;  but 
that  statue  was  of  bronze.  The  Gladiator  was  once  in  the 
▼ilia  LudoTizi.  and  was  bought  bv  Clement  XII.  The 
rlgjit  arm  is  an  entire  restoration  of  Michael  Angelo. 
>, «  See  Appendix,  ♦*  Historical  Notes,"  Nos.  xxix.  xxx. 

*  Suetonius  informs  us  that  Julius  Caesar  wan  particularly 
gntii&ed  by  that  decree  of  the  senate  which  entmled  him  to 
wear  a  wreath  of  laurel  on  all  occasions.  He  was  anxious, 
not  to  show  that  he  was  the  conqueror  of  the  world,  but  to 
hide  that  lie  was  bald.  A  stranger  at  Rome  would  hardly 
have  guessed  at  the  motire,  nor  should  we  without  the  help 
of  the  historian. 

<  This  is  quoted  in  the  "  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman 
Empire,**  as  a  proof  that  the  Coliseum  was  entire,  when  seen 
oy  the  An^lo-saxon  pilsrims  at  the  end  of  the  seventh,  or 
we  beginning  of  the  eimth,  century.  A  notice  on  the  Coli- 
seum may  be  seen  in  the  **  Historical  Illustrations,'*  p.  203. 

•  **  lliongb  plundered  of  all  its  brass,  except  tSie  ring 


Rome  and  her  Ruin  past  Redemption's  skill. 
The  World,  the  same  wide  den— of  thieves,  or  what 
ye  will. 

CXLVI. 

Simple,  erect,  severe,  austere,  sublime — 
Shrine  of  all  saints  and  temple  of  all  gods. 
From  Jove  to  Jesus — spared  and  bless'd  by  time  f 
Looking  tranquillity,  while  falls  or  nods 
Arch,  empire,  each  thing  round  thee,  and  man  plods 
His  way  through  thorns  to  ashes — glorious  dome  ! 
Shalt  thou  not  last?    Time's  scySie  and  tyrants' 

rods 
Shiver  upon  thee — sanctuary  and  home 
Of  art  and  piety — Pantheon ! — pride  of  Rome ! 

CXLVIL 

Relic  of  nobler  days,  and  noblest  arts ! 
Deepoil'd  yet  perfect,  with  thy  circle  8|»«ads 
A  holiness  appeaUng  to  all  hearts — 
To  ait  a  model ;  and  to  him  who  treads 
Rome  for  the  sake  of  ages.  Glory  sheds 
Her  light  through  thy  sole  aperture ;  to  thoee 
Who  worship,  here  are  altars  for  their  beads ; 
And  they  who  feel  for  genius  may  repose 
Tlieir  eyes  on  honor'd  forms,  whose  busts  aroimd  them 
close.* 

CXLVIII. 

There  is  a  dungeon,  in  whose  dim  drear  light* 
What  do  I  gaze  on  ?     Nothin? :    Look  again ! 
Two  forms  are  slowly  shadow^  on  my  sight — 
Two  insulated  phantoms  of  the  brain : 
It  is  not  so ;  I  see  them  full  and  plain — 
An  old  man,  and  a  female  young  and  fair, 
Fresh  as  a  nursing  mother,  in  whose  vein 
The  blood  is  nectar : — but  what  doth  she  there. 
With  her  immantled  neck,  and  bosom  white  and  bare? 

CXLIX. 

Full  swells  the  deep  pure  fountain  of  young  hfe. 
Where  on  the  heart  and /rom  the  heart  we  took 
Our  first  and  sweetest  nurture,  when  the  wife. 
Blest  into  mother,  in  the  innocent  look. 
Or  even  the  piping  cry  of  lips  that  brook 
No  pain  and  small  suspense,  a  joy  perceives 
Man  knows  not,  when  from  out  its  cradled  nook 
She  sees  her  little  bud  put  forth  its  leaves— 
What  may  the  fruit  be  yet  ? — I  know  not — Cain  was 
Eve's. 


which  was  necessary  to  preserve  the  aperture  above; 
though  exposed  to  repeated  fires  ;  though  sometimes  flood- 
ed by  the  river,  and  always  open  to  the  rain,  no  monument 
of  equal  antiquity  is  so  well  preserved  as  this  rotundo.  It 
passed  with  little  alteration  from  the  Pa^an  into  the  present 
worship :  and  so  convenient  were  its  mches  for  the  Chris- 
tian altar,  that  Michael  Angelo,  ever  studious  of  ancient 
beauty,  introduced  their  design  as  a  model  in  the  Catholic 
church.**— Forsyth*8  Italy,  p.  187,  Sd  edit. 

*  The  Pantheon  has  been  made  a  receptacle  for  the  busts 
of  modem  ^at,  or,  at  least,  distinguished,  men.  The  flood 
of  light  which  once  fell  through  the  large  orb  above  on  the 
whole  circle  of  divinities,  now  shines  on  a  numerous  assem- 
blage of  mortals,  some  one  or  two  of  whom  have  been  almost 
deified  by  the  veneration  of  their  conntrjrmen.  For  a  not  ice 
of  the  Pantheon,  see  "  Historical  Illustrations,"  p.  287. 

)  This  and  the  three  next  stanzas  allude  to  the  story  of 
the  Roman  daughter,  which  is  recalled  to  the  traveller  by 
the  site,  or  pretended  site,  of  that  adventure,  now  shown  at 
the  church  of  St.  Nicholas  tn  Carctrt.  The  diflloulties  at- 
tending the  fill!  behef  of  the  tale  are  stated  in  **  Historical 
ninstrations,**  p.  9Uft. 


68 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  iv. 


CI* 

But  here  youth  offen  to  old  age  the  food, 
The  milk  of  his  own  gift : — it  is  her  sire 
I       To  whom  she  renders  back  the  debt  of  blood 
I       Bom  with  her  birth.    No  ;  he  shall  not  expire 
I       While  in  those  warm  and  lovely  veins  the  fire 
!       Of  health  and  holy  feel'mg  can  provide 
I       Great  Nature's  Nile,  whose  deep  stream  rises  higher 
Thau  EJgypt*8  river : — from  that  gentle  side 
Drink, drii£  and  live, dd  man!  Heaven's  realm  holds 
no  such  tide. 

CLL 

The  starry  faWe  of  the  milky  way 
Has  not  thy  etoTy*B  purity ;  it  is 
A  constellation  of  a  sweeter  ray, 
And  sacred  Nature  triumphs  more  in  this 
RevexBO  of  her  decree,  than  in  the  abyss 
Where  sparkle  distant  worids : — Oh,  holiest  nurse ! 
No  drop  of  that  clear  stream  its  way  shall  miss 
To  thy  sire's  heart,  replenishing  its  source 
With  life,  as  our  freed  souls  rejoin  the  universe. 

CLII. 

Turn  to  the  Mole  which  Hadrian  rear'd  on  high,* 
Imperial  mimic  of  old  Egypt's  piles. 
Colossal  copyist  of  deformity, 
Whose  travell'd  phantasy  from  the  far  Nile's 
Enormous  model,  doom'd  the  artist's  toils 
To  build  for  giants,  and  for  his  vain  earth. 
His  shrunken  ashes,  raise  this  dome :     How  smiles 
The  gazer's  eye  with  philosophic  mirth,         [birth ! 
To  view  the  huge  design  which  sprung  from  such  a 

CLin. 

But  lo !  the  dome— the  vast  and  wondrous  dome,* 
To  which  Diana's  marvel  was  a  cell — 
Christ's  mighty  shrine  above  his  martyr's  tomb ! 
I  have  beheld  the  Ephesian's  miracle — 
Its  columns  strew  the  wilderness,  and  dwell 
The  hyosna  and  the  jackal  in  their  shade ; 
I  have  beheld  Sophia's  bright  roofs  swell 
Their  glittering  mass  i'  the  sun,  and  have  survey'd 
Its  sanctuary  the  while  the  usurping  Moslem  prajrd ; 

CLIV. 

But  thou,  of  temples  old,  or  altars  new, 
Standest  alone — with  nothing  like  to  thee — 
Worthiest  of  God,  the  holy  and  the  true. 
Since  Zion's  desolation,  when  that  He 
Forsook  his  former  city,  what  could  be, 
Of  earthly  structures,  in  his  honor  piled. 
Of  a  sublimer  aspect?     Majesty, 
Power,  Glory,  Strength,  and  Beauty,  all  are  aisled 
In  this  eternal  ark  )f  worship  undefiled. 


1  The  castle  of  St.  Angelo.  **  See  Historical  Illustrations.** 

*  [This  and  Uie  six  next  stanzas  have  a  reference  to  the 

church  of  St.  Peter's.    For  a  measurement  of  the  compara- 

'  tive  length  of  this  basilica  and  the  other  great  churches  of 

i  Europe,  see  the  pavement  of  St.  Peter's,  and  the  Classical 
Tour  through  Italy,  vol.  ii.  p.  135,  et  seq.  eh.  iv.] 

>  [**  I  remember  very  well,*'  says  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 
"  my  own  disappointment  when  1  first  visited  the  Vatican ; 

,  but  on  confessmg  my  feelings  to  a  brother  student,  of  whose 
ingenuousness  I  naa  a  hiffh  opinion,  he  acknowledged  that 
the  works  of  Raphael  had  the  same  effect  on  him,  or  rather, 
that  they  did  not  produce  the  effect  which  he  expected. 
This  was  a  great  relief  to  my  mind ;  and,  on  inquiring 
further  of  other  students,  I  found  that  those  persons  only 

,  who,  from  natural  imbecility,  appeared  to  be  inca^le  of 
relishing  those  divine  performances,  made  pretensions  to 
instantaneous  raptures  on  first  beholding  them.— My  not 

I  relishing  them  as  I  was  conscious  I  ought  to  have 'done, 


CLV. 

Enter :  its  grandeur  overwhelms  thee  not  ;* 
And  why  7  it  is  not  lessen'd ;  but  thy  mmd. 
Expanded  by  the  genius  of  the  spot. 
Has  grown  colossal,  and  can  only  find 
A  fit  abode  wherein  appear  enshrined 
Thy  hopea  of  immortality ;  and  thou 
Shalt  one  day,  if  found  worthy,  so  defined. 
See  thy  Grod  face  to  face,  as  thou  dost  now 
His  Holy  of  Hohes,  nor  be  blasted  by  his  brow. 

CLVI. 

Thou  movest — ^but  increasing  with  the  advance, 
like  climbing  some  great  Alp,  which  still  doth  rise, 
Deceived  by  its  gigantic  el^ance ; 
Vastness  which  grows — but  grows  to  harmonize— 
All  musical  in  its  inunensities ; 
Rich  marbles — richer  paintmg— shrines  where  flame 
The  lamps  of  gold — and  hac^ty  dome  which  vies 
In  air  with  Earth's  chief  structures,  though  their 
frame  [claim. 

Sits  on  the  firm-set  ground — and  this  the  doudis  must 

CLVII. 

Ilion  seest  not  all ;  but  piecemeal  thou  must  break, 
To  separate  contemplation,  the  great  whole  ; 
And  as  the  ocean  many  bays  will  make, 
That  ask  the  eye— so  here  condense  thy  soul 
To  more  inunediate  objects,  and  control 
Thy  thoughts  until  thy  mind  hath  got  by  heart 
Its  eloquent  proportions,  and  unroll 
In  mighty  graduations,  part  by  part, 
The  glory  which  at  once  upon  thee  did  not  dart, 

cLvni. 

Not  by  its  fault — ^but  thine :  Our  outward  sense 
Is  but  of  gradual  grasp — and  as  it  is 
That  what  we  have  of  feeling  most  intense 
Outstrips  our  faint  expression  ;  even  so  this 
Outshining  and  o'erwhelming  edifice 
Fools  our  fond  gaze,  and,  greatest  of  the  great* 
Defies  at  firet  our  Nature's  littlenees, 
Till,  growing  with  its  growth,  we  thus  dilate 
Our  spirits  to  me  size  of  that  they  contemplate. 

cux. 

Then  pause,  and  be  enUgfaten'd ;  there  is  nv>re 
In  such  a  survey  than  the  sating  gaze 
Of  wonder  pleased,  or  awe  which  would  adore 
The  worship  of  the  place,  or  the  mere  praise 
Of  art  and  its  ^reat  masters,  who  could  raise 
What  former  tmie,  nor  skill,  nor  thought  could  plan; 
The  fountain  of  sublimity  dtspla3rs 
Its  depth,  and  thence  may  dmw  the  mind  of  man 
Its  golden  sands,  and  learn  what  great  conceptk>ns  can. 


was  one  of  the  most  humihating  circumstances  that  ever 
happened  to  me ;  I  found  myself  in  the  midst  of  works  ex- 
ecuted upon  prhiciples  with  which  I  was  unacquainted :  I 
felt  my  ignorance,  and  stood  abashed.  All  the  indigested 
notions  of  painting  which  I  had  brought  with  me  from 
England,  where  the  art  was  in  the  lowest  state  it  had  ever 
been  in,  were  to  be  totally  done  away  and  eradicated  from 
mv  mind.  It  was  neceseuurv,  as  it  is  expressed  on  a  very 
solemn  occasion,  that  I  should  become  as  a  KttU  tMJd. 
Notwithstanding  my  disappointment,  J  proceeded  to  copy 
some  of  those  excellent  works.  I  viewed  them  again  and 
again ;  I  even  affected  to  feel  their  merit  and  admire  them 
more  than  I  really  did.  In  a  short  time,  a  new  taste  and  a 
new  perception  Began  to  davni  upon  me.  and  I  was  con- 
vince that  I  had  originally  formed  a  false  opinion  of  the 
perfection  of  the  art,  and  that  this  great  painter  was  well 
entitled  to  the  high  rank  which  he  holds  in  the  admin^oa 
of  the  worM  **] 


Canto  iv. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


CLX. 

Or,  tiuniikg  to  the  Vatican,  go  seo 

Laocoon's  torture  dignifying  pain — 

A  father's  lore  and  mortal's  agony 

With  an  immortal's  patience  blendmg : — ^Vain 

I      Hie  straggle ;  yain,  against  the  coiling  strain 
And  gripe,  and  deepening  of  the  dragon's  grasp, 
Hie  old  man's  clench  ;  the  kmg  enrenom'd  chain 
Rivets  the  living  links, — the  enormous  asp 

I  Enforces  pang  on  pang,  and  stifles  gasp  on  gaspi 

I  CLXI. 

I      Or  view  the  Lctd  of  the  unerring  bow, 

I      Hie  God  of  life,  and  poesy,  and  light — 
The  Sun  in  human  lunbs  array'd,  and  brow 
All  radiant  from  his  triumph  in  the  flght ; 
The  shaft  hath  just  been  Bhot — the  arrow  bright 
With  an  immortars  vengeance ;  in  his  eye 

I      And  nostril  beautiful  dizain,  and  might 
And  majesty,  flash  their  full  lightnings  by, 

I  Developing  in  that  one  glance  the  Deity. 

'  CLXIL 

But  in  his  delicate  form — a  dream  of  Love, 
I      Shaped  by  some  solitary  nymph,  whose  breast 
Long'd  for  a  deathless  lover  from  above. 
And  maddened  in  that  vision — are  express'd 
All  that  ideal  beauty  ever  bless'd 
The  mind  with  in  its  modt  unearthly  mood, 
When  each  conception  was  a  heavenly  guest — 
A  ray  of  immortality — and  stood, 
Stariike,  around,  until  they  gather'd  to  a  god ! 

I  CLXIIL 

And  if  it  be  Prometheus  stole  from  Heaven 
The  fire  which  we  endure,  it  was  repaid 
By  him  to  whom  the  energy  was  given 
Which  this  poetic  marble  hath  array'd 
With  au  eternal  glory — which,  if  miade 
By  human  hands,  is  not  of  human  thought ; 
And  Time  himself  hath  hallowed  it,  nor  laid 
One  ringlet  in  the  dust — nor  hath  it  caught 

I  A  tinge  of  years,  but  breathes  the  flame  with  whieh 
'twas  wrought 


CLXIV. 
But  where  is  he,  the  Pilgrim  of  my  song. 
The  being  who  upheld  it  through  the  past  7 
Methiuks  he  cometh  late  and  tarries  long. 
Ha  is  no  more— these  breathings  are  his  last ; 
His  wanderings  done,  his  visions  ebbing  fast, 
And  he  himself  as  nothing: — if  he  was 
Aught  but  a  phantasy,  and  could  be  class'd 
With  forms  which  live  and  sufler — let  that  pa 
His  shadov-  fades  ew«>v  into  Destruction's  mass. 


CLXV. 
Which  gathers  shadow,  substance,  life,  and  all 
i     That  we  inherit  in  its  mortal  shroud, 

And  spreads  the  dim  and  universal  pall  [cloud 

Through  which  all  thiup  grow  phantoms ;  and  tiie 
Between  us  sinks  and  all  which  ever  glow'd, 
Till  Glory's  self  is  twilight,  and  displays 
A  melancholy  halo  scarce  allow'd 


>  f  "^  Tbe  death  of  the  Princess  Charlotte  has  been  a  shock 
«T«i  here.  (Venice,)  and  must  have  been  an  earthquake  at 
^Bflie.  Tbe  fote  of  this  poor  girl  is  melancholy  in  every 
•spect ;  dying  at  twenty  or  so,  in  childbed— of  a  boy  too,  a 


To  hover  on  the  verge  of  darkness ;  rays 
Sadder  than  saddest  n^t,  for  they  cUstract  the  gaze, 

CLXVI. 

And  send  us  pr3ring  into  the  abyss. 
To  gather  what  we  shall  be  when  tiie  frame 
Shall  be  resolved  to  something  less  than  this 
Its  wretched  essence ;  and  to  dream  of  fame, 
And  wipe  the  dust  from  off  the  idle  name 
We  never  more  shall  hear, — but  never  more,  I 

Oh,  happier  thought !  can  we  be  made  the  same  : 
It  is  enough  in  sooth  that  once  we  bore    [was  gore. 
Tliese  fardels  of  the  heart — the  heart  whose  sweat 

CLXVII. 
Hark  !  forth  from  the  abyss  a  voice  proceeds, 
A  long  low  distant  murmur  of  dread  sound, 
Such  as  arises  when  a  nation  bleeds 
With  some  deep  and  immedicable  wound ;  [ground,   j 
Through  storm  and  darkness  yawns  the  rending  I 
The  gulf  is  thick  with  phantoms,  but  the  chief  ' 

Seems  royal  still,  though  with  her  head  discrown'd. 
And  pale,  but  lovely,  with  maternal  grief 
She  clasps  a  babe,  to  whom  her  breast  yields  no  relief. 

CLXVIIL  j 

Scion  of  chiefs  and  monarchs,  where  art  thou  ?  | 
Fond  hope  of  many  nations,  art  thou  dead  ? 

Could  not  the  grave  forget  thee,  and  lay  low  i 

Some  less  majestic,  less  beloved  head  ?  ' 

In  the  sad  midnight,  while  thy  heart  still  bled,  I 

The  mother  of  a  moment,  o'er  thy  boy,  | 

Death  hush'd  that  pang  forever :  with  thee  fled  i 

The  present  happiness  and  promised  joy  | 

Which  fill'd  the  imperial  isles  so  full  it  seem'd  to  cloy.  | 

! 

CLXIX.  j 

Peasants  bring  forth  in  safety. — Can  it  be,  i 

Oh  thou  that  wert  so  happy,  so  adored !  | 

Tliose  who  weep  not  for  kings  shall  weep  for  thee. 
And  Freedom's  heart,  grown  heavy,  cease  to  hoard 
Her  many  griefe  for  One  ;  for  she  had  pour'd  J 

Her  orisons  for  thee,  and  o'er  thy  head  { 

Beheld  her  Iris. — Thou,  too,  lonely  lord,  j 

And  desolate  consort — ^vainly  wert  thou  wed ! 
Hie  husband  of  a  year !  the  father  of  the  dead ! 

CLXX. 

Of  sackcloth  was  thy  wedding  garment  made  ; 
Tliy  bridal's  fruit  is  ashes :  in  the  dust 
The  fair-hair'd  Daughter  of  the  Isles  is  laid. 
The  love  of  millionsT    How  we  did  intrust 
Futurity  to  her !  and,  though  it  must 
Darken  above  our  bones,  yet  fondly  deem'd 
Our  children  should  obey  her  child,  and  bless'd 
Her  and  her  hoped-for  seed,  whose  promise  seem'd 
like  stars  to  shepherds'  eyes : — ^'twas  but  a  meteor 
beam'd. 

CLXXL 

Wo  unto  us,  not  her  ;*  for  she  sleeps  well : 
The  fickle  reek  of  popular  breath,  the  tongue 
Of  hollow  counsel,  the  false  oracle, 
MThich  from  the  birth  of  monarchy  hath  rung 


E resent  princess  and  fiiture  aueen,'and  lust  as  she  beran  to 
e  happy,  and  to  enjoy  herseif,  and  the  hopes  which  she  in- 
spired.   I  feel  sorry  in  every  respect."— .ffynm  Utters.] 


70 


k 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  iv. 


Its  knell  in  princely  ean,  till  the  o'entung 
Nations  have  arm'd  m  madness,  the  strange  fate* 
Which  tumbles  miffhtiest  sovereigns,  and  hath  flung 
Against  their  blind  omnipotence  a  weight 
Within  the  opposing  scale,  which  eruriies  soon  or 
late,— 

CLXXIL 

Tliese  might  have  been  her  destiny ;  but  no, 
Our  hearts  deny  it :  and  so  young,  so  fair, 
Good  without  efibrt,  great  without  a  foe ; 
But  now  a  bride  and  mother — and  now  there! 
How  many  ties  did  that  stem  moment  tear ! 
From  thy  Sire's  to  his  humblest  subject's  breast 
Is  link'd  the  electric  chain  of  that  deq>air, 
Whose  shock  was  as  an  earthquake's,  and  oppreas'd 
The  land  which  loved  thee  so  that  none  could  love 
thee  best 

CLXXIIL 

Lo,  Nemi  !*  navell'd  in  the  woody  hills 
So  far,  that  the  uprooting  wind  which  tears 
The  oak  from  his  foundation,  and  which  spills 
The  ocean  o'er  its  boundary,  and  bears 
Its  foam  against  the  skies,  reluctant  qiares 
The  oval  mirror  of  thy  glassy  lake ; 
And,  calm  as  cherish'd  hate,  its  surface  wears 
A  deep  cold  settled  aspect  naught  can  shake, 
All  coil'd  into  itself  and  round,  as  sleeps  the  snake. 


CLXXIV. 

And  near  Albano's  scarce  divided  waves 
Shine  from  a  sister  valley ; — and  afar 
The  Tiber  winds,  and  the  broad  ocean  laves 
Tlie  Latian  coast  where  sprung  the  Epic  war, 
**  Arms  and  the  Man,"  whose  reaacending  star 
Rose  o'er  an  empire : — but  beneath  thy  right 
Tully  reposed  from  Rome ; — and  where  yon  bar 
Of  j^irdling  mountains  intercepts  the  sight 
The  Sabine  farm  was  till'd,  the  weary  bud's  delight* 


CLXXV. 
But  I  forget — ^My  Pilgrim's  shrine  is  won. 
And  he  and  I  must  part, — so  let  it  be — 
His  task  and  mine  alike  are  nearly  done ; 
Yet  once  more  let  us  look  upon  the  sea ; 
The  midland  ocean  breaks  on  him  and  me. 
And  from  the  Alban  Mount  we  now  behold 
Our  friend  of  youth,  that  Ocean,  which  when  we 
Beheld  it  last  by  Calpe's  rock  unfold 
Those  waves,  we  follow'd  on  till  the  dark  Euxine  roU'd 


CLXXVI. 

Upon  the  j!ue  Symplegades :  long  years- 
Long, 'though  not  very  many,  since  have  done 
Their  wock  on  both ;  some  sufiering  and  some  tears 
Have  left  us  neariy  where  we  had  begun : 
Yet  not  in  vain  our  mortal  race  hath  run, 


1  Mary  died  on  the  scafTold ;  Elizabeth  of  a  broken  heart : 
Charles  V.  a  hermit ;  Louis  XIV.  a  bankrupt  in  means  and 

5 lory  ;  Cromwell  of  anxiety ;  and,  '*  the  greatest  is  behind,** 
rapuleon  lives  a  prisoner.  To  these  sovereigns  a  long  but 
superfluous  list  might  be  added,  of  names  equally  illustrious 
and  unhappy. 

s  The  villafe  of  Nemi  was  near  the  Arician  retreat  of 
Egeria,  and,Trom  the  shades  which  embosomed  the  temple 
oiDiana,  has  preserved  to  this  day  its  distinctive  appellation 


We  have  had  our  reward — and  it  is  here ; 
That  we  can  yet  ft  el  gladdeu'd  by  the  sun. 
And  reap  from  earth,  sea,  joy  almost  as  dear 
As  if  there  were  no  man  to  trouble  what  is  clear. 

CLXXVIL 
Oh !  that  the  Desert  were  my  dwelling-place. 
With  one  fair  Spirit  for  my  minister. 
That  I  might  all  forget  the  human  race. 
And,  hating  no  one,  love  but  ouly  her ! 
Ye  Elements ! — in  whose  ennobling  stir 
I  feel  myself  exalted — Can  ye  not 
Accord  me  such  a  being?    Do  I  err 
In  deeming  such  inhabit  many  a  spot? 
Though  with  them  to  converse  can  rarely  be  our  lot 

cLxxvin. 

Tliere  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
Tliere  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore. 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes, 
By  the  deep  Sea,  and  music  in  its  roar: 
I  love  not  Man  the  leas,  but  Nature  more. 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  egress,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

CLXXIX. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean — roll ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  tiiee  in  vain ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  niin — his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore ; — upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  aU  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own. 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain. 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknell'd,  uncoffin'd,  and  unknown. 

CLXXX. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths, — thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  himr--thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee ;  the  vile  strength  he  wields 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise, 
Spuming  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies. 
And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray 
And  howling,  to  his  Gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay. 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth : — there  let  him  lay. 

CLXXXI. 

Tlie  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-butit  cities,  bidding  nations  quake. 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals. 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vaiu  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war ; 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake. 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  Uie  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 


of  The  Grove.    Nemi  is  but  an  evening's  ride  from  the  oom- 
fortable  inn  of  Albano. 

*  The  whole  declivity  of  the  Alban  hill  is  of  unrivalled 
beauty,  and  from  the  convent  on  the  highest  point,  which  has 
succeeded  to  the  temple  of  the  Latian  Jupiter,  the  prosiiect 
embraces  all  the  objects  alluded  to  in  this  stanza ;  tne  Medi- 
terranean ;  the  whole  scene  of  the  latter  half  of  the  iEneid, 
and  the  coast  from  beyond  the  mouth  of  the  Tiber  to  the 
headland  of  Circaeum  and  the  Cape  of  Terradna.'— Sse 
Appendix,  "  Historical  Notes,**  No.  xxxi. 


Canto  iv. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


71 


CLXXXII. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee— 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they?* 
Thy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since ;  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  dare,  or  savage ;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserti : — not  so  thou. 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play — 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow — 
Soch  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  roUest  now. 

CLXXXIII 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  tlie  Almighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests ;  in  all  time. 
Calm  or  convulsed — ^in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm, 
Icin^  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving ; — ^boundless,  endless,  and  sublime — 
The  image  of  Eternity — the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible ;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made ;  each  zone 
Obeys  thee ;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  alone. 

CLXXXIV. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean  ?  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward :  from  a  boy 
I  wanton'd  with  thy  breakers — they  to  me 


>  [When  Lord  Byron  wrote  this  stanza,  he  had,  no  doubt, 
the  following  passage  in  Bo8weU*8  Johnson  floating  on  his 
mind :— **  Dining  one  day  with  General  Paoli,  and  talking 
of  his  projected  Joomey  to  Italy,—*  A  man,*  said  Johnson, 
*  who  has  not  been  in  Italy,  is  always  conscious  of  an  infe- 
riority,  from  his  not  having  seen  what  it  is  expected  a  man 
should  see.  The  grand  object  of  all  travelling  is  to  see  the 
shores  of  the  MMiterranean.  On  those  shores  were  the 
four  great  empires  of  the  world ;  the  Assyrian,  the  Persian, 
the  Grrecian,  and  the  Roman.  All  our  religion,  almost  all 
our  Law,  alinost  all  our  arts,  almost  all  that  sets  us  above 
sarages,  has  come  to  us  from  the  shores  of  the  Mediterra- 
nean.' The  General  observed,  that '  The  Mediterranean' 
would  be  a  noble  subject  for  a  poem.*'— Life  of  Johnson, 
VOL  ▼.  p.  145,  ed.  1835.] 

s  [«  This  passage  would,  perhaps,  be  read  without  emo- 
tion,  if  we  <ud  not  know  that  Lord  Byron  was  here  descri- 
btng  Us  actual  feeUngs  and  habits,  and  that  this  was  an  tm« 
affected  picture  of  his  propensities  and  amusements  even 
from  childhood,— when  ne  listened  to  the  roar,  and  watched 
the  bursts  of  the  northern  ocean  on  the  tempestuous  shores 
of  Aberdeenshire.  It  was  a  fearful  and  violent  cliange  at 
the  age  of  ten  years  to  be  separated  from  this  congeniafsoli- 
^'ide,— this  independence  so  suited  to  his  haughty  and  con- 
templative spirit,— this  rude  grandeur  of  nature,— and 
throvra  among  the  mere  worldly-minded  and  selfish  feroci- 
ty, the  affected  polish  and  repelline  coxcombry,  of  a  great 
public  school.  How  many  thousand  times  did  the  moody, 
sullen,  and  indignant  boy  wish  himself  back  to  the  keen  aur 
and  boisterous  liillows  that  broke  lonely  upon  the  simple 
and  soul-invigorating  haunts  of  his  childhood !  How  did  he 
prefer  some  ghost-story ;  some  tale  of  second-sight ;  some 
relation  of  Robin.  Hood's  fieats ;  some  harrowing  narrative 
of  buccaneer-exploits,  to  all  of  Horace,  and  VirgU,  and 
Homer,  that  was  dinned  into  his  repulsive  spirit !    To  the 


Were  a  delight;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror — 'twas  a  pleasing  fear, 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee, 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane— as  I  do  here. 

CLXXXV. 

My  task  is  done* — ^my  song  hath  ceased — my 

theme 
Has  died  mto  an  echo ;  it  is  fit 
The  spell  should  break  of  this  protracted  dream. 
The  toreh  shall  be  extinguish'd  which  hath  lit 
My  midnight  lamp— and  what  is  writ,  is  writ, — 
Would  it  were  worthier !  but  I  am  not  now 
That  which  I  have  been — and  my  visions  flit 
licss  palpably  before  me — and  the  glow 
Which  in  my  spirit  dwelt  is  fluttering,  faint,  and  low. 

CLXXXV L 

Farewell !  a  word  that  must  bo,  and  hath  been — 
A  sound  which  makes  us  linger ; — yet — ^farewell ! 
Ye  !  who  have  traced  the  Pilgrim  to  the  scene 
Which  is  his  last,  if  in  your  memories  dwell 
A  thought  which  once  was  his,  if  on  ye  swell 
A  single  recollection,  not  in  vain 
He  wore  his  saudal-shoou,  and  scallop^ell ; 
Farewell !  with  him  alone  may  rest  the  pain, 
If  such  there  were — with  you,  the  moral  of  his  strain ! 


shock  of  this  change  is,  I  suspect,  to  be  traced  much  of  the 
eccentricity  of  Lord  Bvrou's  future  life.  This  fourth  Canto 
is  the  fruit  of  a  mind  which  had  stored  itself  with  great  care 
and  toil^  and  had  digested  with  profound  reflection  and  in- 
tense vigor  what  it  had  learned:  the  sentiments  are  not 
such  as  ue  on  the  surface,  but  could  only  be  awakend  by 
long  meditation.  Whoever  reads  it,  and  is  not  impressed 
with  the  many  grand  virtues  as  well  as  gigantic  powers  of 
the  mind  that  wrote  it,  seems  to  me  to  afford  a  proof  both  of 
insensibility  of  heart,  and  great  stupidity  of  intellect.'*— Sia 
E.  Brtooes.] 

•  ["  It  was  a  thought  worthy  of  the  sreat  spirit  of  Byron, 
after  exhibitinff  to  us  his  Pilerim  amidst  all  the  most  stri- 
king scenes  of  earthly  grandeur  and  earthly  decay,- after 
teaching  us,  like  him,  to  sicken  over  the  mutability,  and 
vuiity,  and  emptiness  of  human  greatness,  to  conduct  him 
and  us  at  last  to  the  borders  of  *  the  Great  Deep.'  it  is 
there  that  we  may  perceive  an  image  of  the  awful  and  un- 
changeable abyss  of  eternity,  into  whose  bosom  so  much 
has  sunk,  and  all  shall  one  day  sink,— of  that  eternity  where- 
in the  scorn  and  the  contempt  of  man,  and  the  melancholy 
of  great,  and  the  fretting  of  uttle  minds,  shall  be  at  rest  for- 
ever. No  one,  but  a  true  poet  of  man  and  of  nature,  would 
have  dared  to  frame  such  a  termination  for  such  a  Pil^m- 
age.  The  image  of  the  wanderer  may  well  be  associated, 
for  a  time,  with  the  rock  of  Calpe,  the  shattered  temples  of 
Athens,  or  the  gigantic  fragments  of  Rome;  but  when  we 
wish  to  think  oithis  dark  personification  as  of  a  thing  which 
is,  where  can  we  so  well  imagine  him  to  have  his  daily 
haunt  as  by  the  roaring  of  the  waves  ?  It  was  thus  that 
Homer  represented  Achilles  in  his  moments  of  ungoverna- 
ble and  inconsolable  grief  for  the  loss  of  Patruclus.  It  was 
thus  he  chose  to  depict  the  paternal  despair  of  Chriscus— 

'  Bfi  6^  Aiciup  napd  ^lya  iroXv<p\ola$oto  ^aXdcvnS'' " 

— WiLSOIf. 


72 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


THE   GIAOUR; 

A   FRAGMENT  OF  A  TURKISH  TALE.* 


'  One  fatal  remembrance— one  sorrow  that  throwf 
Its  bleak  shade  alike  o'er  our  joys  and  our  woea— 
To  which  Life  nothing  darker  nor  bri^ter  can  brin^ 
For  which  ioy  hath  no  balm— and  affliction  no  atinir." 


TO 


SAMUEL  ROGERS,  ESQ. 


At  A  SLIGHT  BUT  MOST  SINCERE  TOKEN  OF  ADmRATlON  FOR  BIS  OENIVS,  RESPECT 
FOR  HIS  CHARACTER,  AND  GRATITUDE  FOR  HIS  FRIENDBHir, 

THIS  PRODUCTION  IS  INSCRIBED 

BT  HIS  OBLIGED  AND  AFFBOTIONATE  SERVANT, 

LonDoif.  May,  1813.  BYRON 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  tale  which  these  disjointed  fragments  present, 
is  founded  upon  circumstances  now  less  common  in 
the  East  than  formerly  j  either  because  the  ladies 
are  more  circumspect  thau  in  the  "olden  time,"  or 
because  the  Christians  have  better  fortune,  or  leas 
enterprise.  The  story,  when  entire,  contained  the 
adventures  of  a  female  slave,  who  was  throvm,  in 
the  Mussulman  manner,  into  the  sea  for  infidelity, 
and  avenged  by  a  young  Venetian,  her  lover,  at  the 
time  the  Seven  Islands  were  possessed  by  the  Re- 
public of  Venice,  and  soon  after  the  Amsuts  were 
beaten  back  from  the  Morea,  which  they  had  ravaged 
for  some  time  subsequent  to  the  Russian  invasion. 
The  desertion  of  the  Mainotes,  on  being  refused  the 
plunder  of  Misitra,  led  to  the  abandonment  of  that 
enterprise,  and  to  the  desolation  of  the  Morea,  during 
which  the  cruelty  exercised  on  all  sides  was  unparal- 
leled even  in  the  annals  of  the  faithful' 


1  [The  "  Giaour"  was  published  in  May,  1813,  and  abun- 
dantly  sustained  the  impression  created  by  the  first  two  can- 
tos or  Childe  Harold.  It  is  obvious  that  in  this,  the  first  of  his 
romantic  narratives,  Lord  Bjrron's  versification  reflects  the 
admiration  he  always  avowed  for  Mr.  Coleridge's  "  Christ- 
abel,"— ^he  irregular  rhythm  of  which  had  already  been 
adopted  in  the  "Lay  of  tne  Last  Minstrel."  The  fragmenta- 
ry style  of  the  composition  was  suggested  by  the  then  new 
and  popular  "  Columbus"  of  Mr.  Rogers.  As  to  the  subject, 
it  was  not  merely  by  recent  travel  that  the  author  had  famil- 
iarized himself  with  Turkish  history.  "  Old  Knolles,"  he 
said  at  Missolonghi,  a  few  weeks  before  his  death,  "  was  one 
of  the  first  books  that  gave  me  pleasure  when  a  child  ;  and  I 
believe  it  had  much  influence  on  my  future  wishes  to  visit 
the  Levant,  and  gave,  perhaps,  the  oriental  coloring  which 
is  observed  in  nay  poetry."  In  the  mai]rin  of  his  copy  of 
Mr.  D'Israeli's  Essay  on  the  Literary  Character,  we  find 
the  following  note :— *♦  Knolles,  Cantemir,  De  Tott,  Lady 
M.  W.  Montague,  Hawkins's  translation  from  Mignot*s  His- 
tory of  the  Turks,  the  Arabian  Nights— all  travels  or  histo- 
ries, or  books  upon  the  East,  I  could  meet  with,  I  had  read, 
as  well  as  Ricaut,  before  I  was  ten  years  old."] 

a  [An  event,  in  which  Lord  Byron  was  personally  con- 
cerned, undoubtedly  supplied  the  groundwork  of  this  tale  ; 
but  for  the  story,  so  circunistantiaily  put  forth,  of  his  hav- 
ing himself  been  the  lover  of  this  female  slave,  there  is  no 
foundation.    The  girl  whose  life  the  poet  saved  at  Athens 


THE  GIAOUR. 

No  breath  of  air  to  break  the  wave 
That  rolls  below  the  Athenian's  grave. 
That  tomb*  which,  gleaming  o'er  the  cliflT, 
First  greets  the  homeward-veering  skiff, 
High  o'er  the  land  he  saved  in  vain ; 
When  shall  such  hero  live  again  ? 


Fair  clime  !*  where  every  season  smiles 
Benignant  o'er  those  blessed  isles, 
Which,  seen  from  hi  Colonna's  height. 
Make  glad  the  heart  that  hails  the  sight, 
And  lend  to  loneliness  delight 
There  mildly  dimpling.  Ocean's  cheek 
Reflects  the  tints  of  many  a  peak 
Caught  by  the  laughing  tides  that  lave 
These  Edens  of  the  eastern  wave : 


was  not,  we  are  assured  by  Sir  John  Hobhouse,  an  object 
of  his  Lordship's  attachment,  but  of  that  of  his  Turkish  ser- 
vant. For  the  Marquis  of  Sligo's  account  of  the  affair,  see 
Moore's  Notices.) 

•  A  tomb  above  the  rocks  on  the  promontory,  by  some 
supposed  the  sepulchre  of  Themistocles.— [**  There  are," 
says  Cumberland,  in  his  Observer,  •*  a  few  Imes  by  Plato, 
upon  the  tomb  of  Themistodes,  which  have  a  turn  of  ele- 
gant and  pathttic  simplicity  in  them,  that  deserves  a  better 
translation  than  I  can  give  :— 

*  By  the  sea's  marnn,  on  the  watery  strand, 
Thy  monument,  Themistocles,  shall  stand : 
By  this  directed  to  thy  native  shore, 
The  merchant  shall  convey  his  freighted  store ; 
And  when  our  fleets  are  summon'd  to  the  fight, 
Athens  shall  conquer  with  thy  tomb  in  sight.' "] 

*  f"  Of  the  beautiful  flow  of  Byron's  fancy,"  sajrs  Moore, 
"  wnen  its  sources  were  once  opened  on  any  subject,  the 
Giaour  affords  one  of  the  roost  remarkable  instances :  this 
poem  having  accumulated  under  his  hand,  both  in  printing 
and  through  successive  editions,  till  from  four  hundred  lines, 
of  which  it  consisted  in  its  first  copy,  it  at  present  amounts  to 
fourteen  hundred.  The  plan,  indeed,  which  he  had  adopted, 
of  a  series  of  fragments, — a  set  of '  orient  pearls  at  random 
strung'— left  him  free  to  introduce,  without  reference  to 
more  than  the  general  complexion  of  his  story,  whatever  sen- 


And  if  at  tunes  a  traiMent  breeze 
Break  the  blue  crystal  of  the  seaa, 
Or  sweep  one  bkMom  from  the  trees, 
How  welcome  is  each  gentle  air 
That  wakes  and  waits  the  odors  there  I 
Fot  Uiere-~the  Rose  o'er  crag  or  vale, 
Sultana  of  the  Nightingale,* 
The  maid  for  ^om  his  melody, 
His  thousand  songs  are  heard  on  high* 
Blooms  blushing  to  her  lover's  tale : 
His  queen,  the  garden  queen,  his  Rose, 
Unbent  by  winoBi  unchill'd  by  snows, 
Far  from  the  winteis  of  the  west. 
By  every  breeze  and  season  Mess'd, 
Returns  the  sweets  by  nature  given 
In  softest  incense  back  to  heaven ; 
And  grateful  yields  that  smiling  sky 
Her  fairest  hue  and  fragrant  sigh. 
And  many  a  summer  m>wer  m  there. 
And  many  a  riiade  that  love  might  iliare, 
And  many  a  grotto,  meant  for  rest, 
That  hddiB  the  pirate  for  a  guest ; 
Whose  bariL  m  sheltering  cove  below 
Lurks  for  the  paasinff  peaceful  prow, 
Till  the  gay  mariners  guitar* 
Is  heard,  and  seen  the  evening  star ; 
Then  stealing  with  the  muffl^  oar. 
Far  shaded  by  the  rocky  shore. 
Rush  the  night-prowlen  on  the  prey. 
And  turn  to  groans  his  roundelay. 
Strange — that  where  Nature  loved  to  trace. 
As  if  for  Gods,  a  dwelling-place. 
And  every  charm  and  grace  hath  mix'd 
Within  the  paradise  she  fix'd, 
There  man,  enamor'd  of  distress. 
Should  mar  it  into  wilderness, 
And  trample,  brute-like,  o'er  each  flower 
That  tasks  not  one  laborious  hour ; 
Nor  claims  the  culture  of  his  hand 
To  bloom  along  the  fairy  land. 


timenta  or  images  his  fancy,  in  its  excursions,  could  collect ; 
utd,  how  little  fettered  he  was  by  any  regard  to  connection 
in  these  additions,  appears  from  a  note  which  accompanied 
his  own  copy  of  this  paragraph,  in  which  he  says,—' I  have 
not  yet  fixea  the  place  ofinseition  for  the  following  linec, 
but  will,  when  I  see  you— as  I  have  no  copy/  Even  into 
this  new  pa8sac[e,  rich  as  it  was  at  first,  his  fancy  aflerwuds 
poured  a  fresh  uuosion.*'— The  value  of  these  after-touches 
of  the  roaster  may  be  appreciated  by  comparing  the  follow- 
ing verses,  fit>m  his  oiiginal  draft  of  this  paragraph,  with 
tte  form  which  they  now  wear  :— 

**  Fair  clime !  where  eeateUtt  summer  smiles, 

Benignant  o'er  those  blessed  isles. 

Which,  seen  from  far  Colonna*s  height, 

Make  ^Ud  the  heart  that  hails  the  nght. 

And  gwt  to  loneliness  delight. 

There  skme  the  brtgki  abodes  ye  seek, 

lAke  dimpUs  vpcn  OeeiaCs  eheek. 

So  smiiwt  roimd  the  waters  lave 

These  £dens  of  the  eastern  wave. 

Or  if,  at  times,  the  transient  breeze 

Break  the  smooth  crystal  of  the  seas, 

Or  brush  one' blossom  from  the  trees, 

How  grateful  is  the  ffentle  air 

That  waves  and  wafts  Uie  fragrance  theie  '* 
The  whole  of  this  passage,  from  line  7,  down  to  line  107, 
**  Who  heard  it  first  had  cause  to  grieve,'*  was  not  in  the 
first  edition.] 

*  The  attachment  of  the  nightingale  to  the  rose  is  a  well- 
known  Persian  fable.    If  I  mistake  not,  the  "  Bulbul  of  a 
thousand  tales'*  is  one  of  his  appellations.    [Thus,  Mesihi, 
as  translated  by  Sir  William  Jones  :— 
**  Come,  charming  maid !  and  hear  thy  poet  sing, 
Thyself  the  rose,  and  he  the  bird  of  spring : 
Love  bids  him  sing,  and  Love  will  be  obey'd. 
Be  gay :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  spring  w?ll  fade.'^j 


10 


But  springs  as  to  preclude  his  care. 

And  sweetly  woos  him — but  to  spare ; 

Strange — that  where  all  is  peace  beside. 

There  passion  riots  in  her  pride. 

And  lust  and  rapine  wildly  reign 

To  darken  o*er  the  fair  domain. 

It  is  as  though  the  fiends  prevailed 

Against  the  seraphs  they  assail'd. 

And,  fix'd  on  heavenly  thrones,  should  dwell 

The  freed  inheritois  of  hell ; 

So  soft  the  scene,  so  form'd  for  joy. 

So  cursed  the  tyrants  that  destroy ! 

^\ 

He  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  ^  dead* 
Ere  the  first  day  of  death  is  fled,- 
The  first  dark  day  of  nothmgnesSr* 
The  last  of  danger  and  distress, 
(Before  Decay's  efiacing  fingers 
Have  swept  the  lines  w^ere  beauty  lingers,) 
And  mark'd  the  mild  angelic  air, 
The  rapture  of  repose  that's  there,* 
The  fix'd  yet  tender  traits  that  streak 
The  languor  of  the  placid  cheek. 
And — but  for  that  sad  shrouded  eye. 
That  fires  not,  wins  not,  weeps  not,  now, 
And  but  for  that  chill,  changeless  brow, 
Where  cold  Obstruction's  apathy* 
Appals  the  gazing  mourner's  heart. 
As  if  to  him  it  could  impart 
The  doom  he  dreads,  yet  dwells  upon ; 
Yes,  but  for  these  and  these  alone. 
Some  moments,  ay,  one  treacherous  hour. 
He  still  might  doubt  the  t3ntmt's  power ; 
So  fair,  so  calm,  so  softly  seal'd, 
The  fint,  last  look  by  death  reveal'd  !* 
Such  is  the  aspect  of  this  shore ; 
'TIS  Greece,  but  living  Greece  no  more  V 
So  coldly  sweet,  so  deadly  fair. 
We  start,  for  soul  is  wanting  there. 


s  The  guitar  is  the  constant  amusement  of  the  Greek  sailor 
by  night :  with  a  steady  fair  wind,  and  during  a  calm,  it  is 
accompanied  always  by  the  voice,  and  often  by  dancing. 

>  [If  once  the  public  notice  is  drawn  to  a  poei,  the  talents 
he  ezhilnts  on  a  nearer  view,  the  weight  his  mind  cagries 
with  it  in  his  every-day  intercourse,  somehow  jr  other,  are 
reflected  around  on  his  compositions,  and  co-operate  in  giv- 
ing a  collateral  force  to  theu-  impression  on  the  public.  To 
this  we  must  assign  some  part  of  the  impression  made  by 
the  "  Giaour."  The  thirty-five  lines  beginning  **  lie  who 
hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead**  are  so  beautiful,  so  original, 
and  so  utterly  beyond  the  reach  of  any  one  whose  poetical 
genius  was  not  very  decided.  ai!d  very  rich,  that  they  alone, 
imder  the  circumstances  explained,  were  sitfllcient  to  secure 
celebrity  to  this  poem.— Sia  E.  Bbydoes.] 

4  ['*  And  mark'd  the  almost  dreaming  air 

Which  speaks  the  sweet  repose  that's  there."— MS.] 

»  "  Ay,  but  to  die  and  go  we  know  not  where, 
To  lye  in  cold  obstruction  ?"— 

Measure  for  Measure,  act  lii  sc.  3. 

•  I  trust  that  few  of  my  readers  have  ever  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  witnessing  what  is  here  attempted  in  description ; 
but  those  who  have  will  probably  retain  a  puinful  remem- 
brance of  that  singular  beauty  which  pervades,  with  few 
exceptions,  the  features  of  the  dead,  a  few  hours,  and  but 
for  a  few  hours,  after  "  the  spirit  is  not  there.'*  It  is  to  be 
remarked  in  cases  of  violent  death  by  gun-shot  w  ounds,  the  | 
expression  is  always  that  of  languor,  whatever  the  natural  | 
energy  of  the  sufferer's  character :  but  in  death  from  a  stab 
the  countenance  preserves  its  traits  of  feeling  or  ferocity, 
and  the  mind  its  bias,  to  the  last. 

» [In  Dallaway's  Constantinople,  a  book  which  Loi  d  Bvron 
is  not  unlikely  to  have  consulted,  I  find  a  passage  Tiotec^  from 
GiTues  Hisiuty  o(  Uit?trce,  vnucii  coniams,  perhaps.  th».  V^ 
seed  of  the  thought  thus  expanded  into  full  perlecuoa 


74 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Here  is  the  loyelineM  in  death, 
That  parts  not  quite  with  parting  breath ; 
But  beauty  with  that  fearful  bloom, 
That  hue  which  haunts  it  to  the  tomb, 
Expression's  last  receding  ray, 
A  gilded  halo  hovering  round  decay. 
The  farewell  beam  of  Feeluig  pass'd  away ! 
^park  of  that  flame,  perchance  of  heavenly  birth, 
Whicli  gleams,  but  warms  no  more  its  cheriflh*d  earth ! 

Clune  of  the  uuforgotten  brave  !* 
Whose  land  from  plain  to  moimtain-cave 
Was  Freedom's  home  or  Glory's  grave ! 
Shrine  of  the  mighty !  can  it  be. 
That  this  is  all  remains  of  thee  1 
Approach,  thou  craven  crouching  slave : 

Say,  is  not  this  Thermopylfs  7 
These  waters  blue  that  round  you  lave, 

Oh  servile  offifiring  of  the  firee — 
Pronounce  what  sea,  what  shore  is  this? 
The  gulf,  the  rock  of  Salamis ! 
These  scenes,  their  story  not  unknown. 
Arise,  and  make  again  your  own ; 
Snatch  from  the  awes  of  your  sires 
The  embers  of  their  former  fires ; 
And  he  who  in  the  strife  expires 
Will  add  to  theire  a  name  of  fear 
That  Tyranny  shall  quake  to  hear. 
And  leave  his  sous  a  hope,  a  fame. 
They  too  will  rather  die  than  shame : 
For  Freedom's  battle  once  begun, 
Bequeath'd  by  bleeding  Sire  to  Son, 
Though  baffled  oil  is  ever  won. 
Bear  witness,  Greece,  thy  living  page. 
Attest  it  many  a  deathless  age  I 
While  kings,  in  dusky  darkness  hid, 
Have  left  a  nameless  pyramid. 
Thy  heroes,  though  the  general  doom 
Hath  swept  the  column  nom  their  tomb, 
A  mightier  monument  command. 
The  mountains  of  their  native  land ! 
There  points  thy  Muse  to  stranger's  eye 
The  graves  of  those  that  cannot  die ! 
Twere  long  to  tell,  and  sad  to  trace. 
Each  step  from  splendor  to  disgrace : 
Enough — ^no  foreign  foe  could  quell 
Thy  soul,  till  from  itself  it  fell ; 
Yes !  Self-abasement  paved  the  way 
To  villain-bonds  and  despot  sway. 

What  can  he  tell  who  treads  thy  shore  ? 

No  legend  of  thme  olden  time, 
No  theme  on  which  the  muse  might  soar 
High  as  thme  own  in  days  of  yore. 


genius ;— "  The  present  sUte  of  Greece,  compared  to  the 
ancient,  is  the  silent  obscurity  of  the  grave  contrasted  with 
the  vivid  lustre  of  active  life."— Moobe.] 

>  (There  is  infinite  beauty  and  effect,  though  of  a  painful 
and  almost  oppressive  character,  in  this  extraordinary  pas- 
sage ;  in  which  the  author  has  Ulustrated  the  beautiful,  but 
still  and  melancholy  aspect  of  the  once  busy  and  glorious 
shores  of  Greece;  by  an  imaxe  more  true,  more  mournful, 
apd  more  exquisitely  finished,  than  any  that  we  can  recol- 
m:  n  the  whole  compass  of  poetry.WBPrBBr.] 

s  [From  this  line  to  the  conclusion  of  the  pamgraph,  the 
MS.  is  written  in  a  hurried  and  almost  illegible  hand, 
as  if  these  splendid  lines  had  been  poured  forth  in  one 
continuous  burst  of  poetic  feeling,  which  would  hardly 
allow  time  for  the  hand  to  follow  the  rapid  flow  of  the  im- 
agination.] 

3  Athens  is  the  property  of  the  Kislar  Aga,  (the  slave  of 


When  man  was  worthy  of  thy  clime. 
Thehearts  within  thy  valleys  bred. 
The  fiery  souls  that  might  have  led 

Thy  sons  to  deeds  sublime, 
Now  crawl  from  cradle  to  the  grave. 
Slaves — nay,  the  bondsmen  of  a  slave,* 

And  callous,  save  to  crime ; 
Stain'd  with  each  evil  that  pollutes 
Mankind,  where  least  above  the  brutes ; 
Without  even  savage  virtue  bleas'd. 
Without  one  free  or  valiant  breast 
Still  to  the  neighboring  ports  they  waft 
Frovorbial  wiles,  and  ancient  craft ; 
In  this  the  subtle  Greek  is  found. 
For  this,  and  this  alone,  reuown'd. 
In  vain  might  Liberty  mvoke 
The  spirit  to  its  bondage  broke. 
Or  raise  the  neck  that  courts  the  ytdie : 
No  more  her  sorrows  I  bewail. 
Yet  this  will  be  a  mournful  tale. 
And  they  who  listen  may  beheve. 
Who  heard  it  first  had  cause  to  grieve. 

Far,  dark,  along  the  blue  sea  glancing, 
The  shadows  of  ^e  rocks  advancing 
Start  on  the  fisher's  eye  like  boat 
Of  island-pirate  or  Maiuote  ; 
And  fearful  for  his  light  caique. 
He  shuns  the  near  but  doubtful  creek : 
Though  worn  and  weary  with  his  toil, 
And  cumber'd  with  his  scaly  spoil. 
Slowly,  yet  strongly,  pUes  the  oar, 
Till  Port  Leone's  safer  shore 
Receives  him  by  the  lovely  light 
That  best  becomes  an  Eastern  night 
«  «  •  •  « 

Who  thundering  comes  on  blackest  steed,* 
With  slacken'd  bit  and  hoof  of  speed  7 
Beneath  the  clattering  iron's  somid 
The  cavem'd  echoes  wake  around 
In  lash  for  lash,  and  bound  for  bound ; 
The  foam  that  streaks  the  coureer's  side 
Seems  gather'd  from  the  ocean-tide  : 
Though  weary  waves  are  sunk  to  rest. 
There's  none  within  his  rider^s  breast ; 
And  though  to-morrow's  tempest  lower, 
'Tis  calmer  than  thy  heart,  young  Giaour  !* 
1  know  thee  not,  I  loathe  thy  race, 
But  m  thy  lineaments  I  trace 
What  time  shall  strengthen,  not  efiace  : 
Though  young  and  pide,  that  sallow  front 
Is  scathed  by  fiery  passion's  brunt ; 


the  serafflio  and  guardian  of  the  women,)  who  appoints  the 
Waywoae.  A  pander  and  eunuch— these  are  not  polite,  yet 
true  appellations— now  governs  the  governor  of  Athens  I 

« [The  reciter  of  the  tale  is  a  Turkish  fisherman,  who  has 
been  employed  during  the  day  in  the  gulf  of  iEgina,  and  in 
the  evenmg.  apprehensive  of  the  Mainote  pirates  who  infest 
the  coast  of  Attica,  lands  with  his  boat  on  the  harbor  of 
Port  Leone,  the  ancient  Piraeus.  He  becomes  the  eye- 
witness of  nearly  all  the  incidents  in  the  story,  and  in  one 
of  them  is  a  principal  agent.  It  is  to  his  feelings,  and  par- 
ticularly to  his  religious  preiudices,  that  we  are  indebted 
for  some  of  the  most  forcible  and  splendid  parts  of  tht 
poem.— Georqb  Ellis.] 

*  rin  Dr.  Clarke's  Travels,  this  word,  which  means  !»• 
Jidel^  is  always  written  according  to  its  English  pronuncia- 
tion, Djour.    Lord  Byron  adopted  the  Italian  speUing.i 
among  the  Franks  of  ttie  Levant] 


THE  GIAOUR. 


75 


Though  bent  on  earth  thiue  eril  eye, 
Ab  meteor-like  thou  glidest  by, 
Right  well  I  view  and  deem  thee  one 
Wnom  Othman'a  eons  should  slay  or  shmi. 

On — on  he  hasten'd,  and  he  drew 
My  gaze  of  wonder  as  he  flew : 
Though  like  a  demon  of  the  night 
He  p^B*d,  and  yanish'd  from  my  si^t, 
His  a^Mct  and  his  air  impressed 
A  troubled  memory  on  my  breast. 
And  long  upon  my  startl^  ear 
Rung  his  dark  courser's  hoofs  of  fear. 
He  spurs  his  steed ;  he  nears  the  steep, 
That,  jutting,  riiadows  o'er  the  deep ; 
He  winds  around ;  he  hurries  by ; 
The  rock  relieves  him  from  mine  eye ; 
For  well  I  ween  unwelcome  he 
Whose  glance  is  fix'd  on  those  that  flee ; 
And  not  a  star  but  shines  too  bright 
On  him  who  takes  such  timeless  flight 
He  wound  along ;  but  ere  he  pass'd 
One  glance  he  snatch'd,  as  if  his  last, 
A  moment  checkM  his  wheeling  steed, 
A  moment  breathed  him  from  his  speed, 
A  moment  on  his  stirrup  stood — 
Why  looks  he  o'er  the  olive  wood  ? 
llie  crescent  glimmers  on  the  hill. 
The  Mosque's  high  lamps  are  quivering  still : 
Though  too  remote  for  sound  to  wake 
In  echoes  of  the  far  tophaike,' 
The  flashes  of  each  joyous  peal 
Are  seen  to  prove  the  Moslem's  zeal. 
To-night,  set  Rhamazani's  sun ; 
To-night,  the  Bairam  feast  's  begun ; 
To-night — but  who  and  what  art  thou 
Of  foreign  garb  and  fearful  brow  ? 
And  what  are  these  to  thine  or  thae. 
That  thou  shouldst  either  pause  or  flee? 

He  stood — some  dread  was  on  his  face, 
Soon  Hatred  settled  in  its  place : 
It  rose  not  with  the  reddeuing  flush 
Of  transient  Anger's  hasty  blush,' 
But  pale  as  marole  o'er  the  tomb. 
Whose  ghast'v  whiteness  aids  its  gloom. 


1  »*  Tophaikc,'*  musket.~The  Bairam  is  announced  by  the 
cannon  at  sunset ;  the  illumination  of  the  Mosques,  and  the 
firing  of  all  kinds  of  small  arms,  loaded  with  baU^  proclaim 
it  during  the  night. 

[**  Htuty  blush.**—*'  For  hasty,  all  the  editions  till  the 
twelfth  read,  *  darkaung  blush.'  On  the  back  of  a  copy  of 
the  eleventh.  Lord  Byron  has  written,  ♦•  Why  did  not  the 

Frintcr  attend  to  the  solitanr  correction  so  repeatedly  made  t 
have  no  copy  of  this,  ana  desire  to  have  none  Vui  my  re- 
quest is  complied  with.'  **] 

*  ["  Then  tum'd  it  swiftly  to  his  blade, 

As  loud  his  raven  charger  neigh'd.'*— MS.] 

*  Jerreed.  or  Djerrid,  a  blunted  Turkish  javelin,  which  is 
darted  from  horseback  with  great  force  and  precision.  It 
is  a  fiavorite  exercise  of  the  Mussulmans ;  but  1  know  not 
if  It  can  be  called  a  wuuUy  one.  since  the  most  expert  in  the 
art  are  the  Black  Eunuchs  of  Constantinople.  I  think,  next 
to  these,  a  Mamlook  at  Smyrna  was  the  most  skilful  that 
came  within  my  observation. 

•»  [Every  gei>ture  of  the  impetuous  horseman  is  full  of 
anxiety  and  passian.  In  the  midst  of  his  career,  whilst  in 
full  view  of  the  astonished  spectator,  he  suddenly  checks  his 
steed,  and  rising  on  his  stirrup,  surveys,  with  a  look  of 
agonizing  impatience,  the  distant  city  illuminated  for  the 
feast  of  Bairam  ;  then  pale  with  anger,  raises  his  arm  as  if 
m  menace  of  an  inviable  enemy ;  out  awakened  from  his 
trance  of  passion  by  the  neighing  of  his  charger,  again  hur- 
ries forward,  and  disaf^pears.— ubobob  Ellis.] 


His  brow  was  bent,  his  eye  was  glazed ; 
He  raised  his  arm,  and  fiercely  raised. 
And  sternly  shook  his  hand  on  high. 
As  doubting  to  return  or  fly ; 
Impatient  of  his  flight  delayed. 
Here  loud  his  raven  charger  aeigfa'd — 
Down  glanced  that  baud,  and  gnuqi'd  his  blade  f 
That  sound  had  burst  his  waking  dream, 
As  Slumber  starts  at  owlet's  scream. 
The  spur  hath  lanced  his  coiuser^s  sides; 
Away,  away,  for  life  he  rides : 
Swift  as  the  huri'd  on  high  jerreed^ 
Springs  to  the  touch  his  startled  steed ; 
The  rock  is  doubled,  and  the  shore 
Shakes  with  the  clattering  tramp  no  more ; 
The  crag  is  won,  no  more  is  seen 
His  Christian  crest  and  haughty  mien.* 
'Twas  but  an  mstant  he  restroin'd 
That  fiery  barb  so  sternly  reui'd  ;• 
'Twas  but  a  moment  that  he  stood, 
Tlien  sped  as  if  by  death  pursued : 
But  in  that  instant  o'er  his  soul 
Winters  of  Memory  seem'd  to  roll, 
And  gather  in  that  drop  of  time 
A  life  of  pain,  an  age  of  crime. 
O'er  him  who  loves,  or  hates,  or  feara, 
Such  moment  pours  the  grief  of  years : 
What  felt  he  then,  at  once  oppressed 
By  all  that  most  distracts  the  breast? 
That  pause,  which  ponder'd  o'er  his  fate. 
Oh,  who  its  dreary  length  shall  date ! 
Though  in  Time's  record  neariy  naught. 
It  was  Eternity  to  Thought ! 
For  infinite  as  boundless  space 
,  The  thought  that  Conscience  must  embrace. 
Which  in  itself  can  comprehend 
Wo  without  name,  or  hope,  or  end. 


Tlie  hour  is  past,  the  Giaour  is  gone  ; 
And  did  he  fly  or  fall  alone  V 
Wo  to  that  hour  he  came  or  went ! 
The  curae  for  Hassan's  sin  was  sent 
To  turn  a  palace  to  a  tomb : 
He  came,  he  went,  like  the  Simoom,' 
That  harbinger  of  fate  and  gloom, 


•  [**  'Twas  but  an  instant,  though  so  long 

When  thus  dilated  in  my  8ong."->MS.] 

T  [*<  But  neither  fled  nor  fell  alone."— MS.] 

*  The  blast  of  the  desert,  fieUal  to  every  thing  living,  and 
often  aUuded  to  in  eastern  poetry.— [Abyssinian  Bruce  gives, 
perhiqM,  the  Uveliest  account  of  the  appearance  and  efiectM 
of  the  suffocating  blast  of  the  Desert  :—^*  At  eleven  o'clock," 
he  says,  *'  while  we  contemplated  with  great  pleasure  the 
rugged  top  of  Cliiggre,  to  which  we  were  fast  approaching, 
and  where  we  were  to  solace  ourselves  with  plenty  of  good 
water,  Idris,  our  ffuide,  cried  out  with  a  loud  voice,  *  Fall 
upon  your  faces,  for  here  is  the  simoom.'  I  saw  from  the 
southeast  a  haxe  oome,  in  color  like  the  purple  part  of  the 
rainboM ,  but  not  so  compressed  or  thick.  It  did  not  occupy 
twenty  yards  in  breadth,  and  was  about  twelve  feet  high  from 
the  ground.  It  was  a  kind  of  blush  upon  the  air.  and  it 
moved  very  rapidly ;  for  I  scarce  could  turn  to  fall  upon 
the  ground,  vnth  my  head  to  the  northward,  when  I  felt  the 
heat  of  its  current  plainly  upon  my  face,  we  all  lay  flat  on 
the  ground  as  if  dead,  till  idris  told  us  it  was  blown  over. 
The  meteor,  or  piuple  haze,  which  I  saw  was,  indeed, 
passed,  but  the  light  air,  whicm  still  blew,  was  of  a  heat  to 
threaten  suffocation.  For  my  part,  I  found  distinctly  in  my 
breast  that  I  had  imbibed  a  part  of  it ;  nor  was  I  free  of  an 
asthmatic  sensation  till  I  had  been  some  months  in  Italy,  at 
the  baths  of  Poretta,  near  two  years  afterwards '*— See 
Bruce*s  Life  and  Travels,  p.  470,  edit.  1830.] 


76 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Beneath  whose  widely-wastiiig  faieath 
The  very  cyprees  droops  to  death — 
Dark  tree,  still  sad  wheu  others'  grief  is  fled, 
The  only  constant  mourner  o*er  ue  dead ! 

Tlie  steed  is  yanish'd  from  the  stall ; 
No  serf  is  seen  in  Hassan's  hall ; 
The  lonely  Spider's  thin  gray  pall 
Waves  slowly  widening  aer  the  waD  ^ 
The  Bat  builds  in  his  Harem  bower, 
And  in  the  fortress  of  his  power 
The  Owl  usurps  the  beacon-tower ; 
The  wild-dog  howls  o'er  the  fountain's  brim, 
With  baffled  thirst,  and  famine,  grim ;' 
For  the  stream  has  shrunk  from  its  marble  bed, 
Where  the  weeds  and  the  desolate  dost  are  epnad. 
'Twas  sweet  of  yore  to  see  it  play 
And  chase  the  sultriness  of  day, 
As  springing  high  the  silver  dew 
In  whirte  fantastically  flew, 
And  flung  luxurious  coohiess  round 
The  air,  and  verdure  o'er  the  ground. 
'Twas  sweet,  when  cloudless  stare  were  bright, 
To  view  the  wave  of  watery  light. 
And  hear  its  melody  by  night 
And  oft  had  Hassan's  Childhood  play'd 
Around  the  verge  of  that  cascade  ; 
And  oft  upon  his  mother's  breast 
That  sound  had  harmonised  his  rest ; 
And  oft  had  Hassan's  Youth  along 
Its  bank  been  sooth'd  by  Beauty's  song ; 
And  softer  seem'd  each  melting  tone 
Of  Music  mingled  with  its  own. 
But  ne'er  shall  Hassan's  Age  repose 
Along  the  brink  at  twilight's  close : 
The  stream  that  fill'd  that  font  is  fled— 
The  blood  that  warm'd  his  heart  is  shed  !* 
And  here  no  more  shall  human  voice 
Be  heard  to  rage,  regret,  rejoice. 
The  last  sad  note  that  swell'd  the  gale 
Was  woman's  wildest  funeral  wail : 
That  quench'd  in  silence,  all  is  still, 
But  the  lattice  that  flaps  when  the  wmd  is  shrill : 
Though  raves  the  gust,  and  floods  the  ram, 
No  hand  shall  close  its  clasp  again.* 
On  desert  sands  'twere  joy  to  scan 
The  rudest  steps  of  fellow  man, 


» f "  The  lonelv  spider^s  thin  gray  pall 

Is  curtainx)  on  the  splencud  wall." — MS.] 

«  ["  The  wild-doe  howls  o'er  the  fountain's  brink, 
But  vainly  tells  his  tongue  to  drink."— MS.l 

s  [**  For  thirsty  fox  and  jackal  gaunt 

May  vainly  for  its  waters  pant."— MS.] 

*  [This  part  of  the  narrative  not  only  contains  much  bril- 
liant and  just  description,  but  is  managed  with  unusual  taste. 
The  fisherman  has,  hitherto,  related  notliing  more  than  the 
extraordinary  phenomenon  which  had  excited  his  curiosity, 
and  of  which  it  is  his  immediate  object  to  explain  the  cause 
to  his  hearers ;  but  instead  ofproceeding  to  do  so,  he  stops 
to  vent  his  execrations  on  the  Giaour,  to  describe  the  solituae 
of  Hassan's  once  luxurious  harem,  and  to  lament  the  un- 
timely death  of  the  owner,  and  of  Leila,  together  with  the 
cessation  of  that  hospitality  which  they  had  uniformly  ex- 
perienced. He  reveals,  as  if  unintentionally  and  uncon- 
sciously, the  catastrophe  of  his  story ;  but  he  thus  prepares 
his  appeal  to  the  sympathy  of  his  audience,  without  much 
dimimshing  their  suspense. — Gbobob  Ellis.] 

«  P'  I  have  just  recollected  an  alteration  you  may  make 
in  the  proof.    Among  the  lines  on  Hassan's  Serai,  is  this— 

*  Unmeet  for  solitude  to  share.* 
Now,  to  share  implies  more  than  one,  and  Solitude  is  a 
single  gentleman ;  it  must  be  thus— 


So  here  the  very  voice  of  Grief 
Might  wake  an  Echo  like  relief — 
At  least  'twould  say,  '*  All  are  not  gone ; 
There  lingen  Life,  though  but  in  one" — 
For  many  a  gilded  chamber  's  there. 
Which  Soliti^e  might  well  forbear  f 
Within  that  dome  as  yet  Decay, 
Hath  slowly  work'd  her  cankering  way — 
But  gloom  is  gather'd  o'er  the  gate. 
Nor  there  the  Fakir's  self  will  wait ; 
Nor  there  will  wanderiug  Dervise  stay, 
For  bounty  cheera  not  his  delay ; 
Nor  there  will  weary  stranger  halt 
To  Mess  the  sacred  "  bread  and  salt"* 
Alike  must  Wealth  and  Poverty 
Pass  heedless  and  unheeded  by, 
For  Courtesy  and  Pity  died 
With  Hassan  on  the  mountain  side. 
His  roof,  that  refuge  unto  men. 
Is  Desolation's  hungry  den. 
The  guest  flies  the  hall,  and  the  vassal  from  labor. 
Since  his  turban  was  cleft  by  the  infidel's  sabre  !^ 
•  •  *  *  • 

I  hear  the  sound  of  coming  feet. 
But  not  a  voice  mine  ear  to  greet ; 
More  near— each  turban  I  can  scan. 
And  silver-sheathed  ataghan  f 
The  foremost  of  the  band  is  seen 
An  Emir  by  his  garb  of  green  :* 
«  Ho !  who  art  thou  ?"— "  This  low  salam* 
Replies  of  Moslem  faith  I  am.** — 
"  The  burden  ye  so  gently  bear 
Seems  one  that  clahns  your  utmost  care. 
And,  doubtless,  holds  some  precious  freight. 
My  humble  bark  would  gladly  wait" 

"  Thou  speakest  sooth ;  thy  skiff  unmoor. 
And  waft  us  from  the  silent  shore ; 
Nay,  leave  the  sail  still  furl'd,  and  ply 
The  nearest  oar  that's  scatter*d  by. 
And  nudway  to  those  rocks  where  sleep 
The  channel'd  watere  dark  and  deep. 
Rest  ftom  your  task — so — bravely  done. 
Our  course  has  been  right  swiftly  run ; 
Yet  'tis  the  longest  voyage,  I  trow, 
That  one  of—  *  •  « 


*  For  many  a  gilded  chamber 's  there, 
Which  solitude  might  well  forbear  ;♦ 
and  so  on.  Will  you  adopt  tlus  correction  ?  andjiray  accept 
a  Stilton  cheese  from  me  for  your  trouble.— P.  S.  1  leave 
this  to  your  discretion :  if  anybody  thinks  the  old  line  a 
good  one,  or  the  cheese  a  bad  one,  don't  accept  of  either." 
^HvroH  Letters,  Stilton.  Oct.  3,  1813.) 

•  To  partake  of  food,  to  break  bread  and  salt  with  your 
host,  ensures  the  safety  of  the  guest :  even  though  an  ene- 
my, his  person  from  that  moment  is  sacred. 

'  I  need  hardly  observe,  that  Charity  and  Hospitality  are 
the  first  duties  enjoined  by  Mahomet ;  and  to  say  truth,  very 
generally  practised  by  his  disciples.    The  first  praise  that 
can  be  bestowed  on  a  chief,  is  a  paneg]rno  on  his  bounty 
the  next,  on  his  valor. 

•  The  ataghan,  a  long  dagger  worn  with  pistols  iu  ihe 
belt,  in  a  metal  scabbard,  generally  of  silver ;  and,  among 
the  wealthier,  gilt,  or  of  gold. 

•  Green  is  the  privileged  color  of  the  prophet's  numerous 
pretended  descendants ;  with  them,  as  here,  faith  (the  faiuily 
mheritance)  is  supposed  to  supersede  the  necessity  of  gtxxl 
works :  they  arc  the  worst  of  a  very  indifferent  brood. 

»  "  Salam  aleikoum  !  aleikoum  saiam  !"  peace  be  with 
you ;  be  with  you  peace— the  salutation  reserved  for  the 
faithful :— to  a  Chnstian,  ••  Urlarula,'  a  good  journey  ;  or 
"  saban  hiresem,  saban  serula."  good  mom,  good  even  ;  and 
sometimes, "  may  your  end  be  nappy ;"  are  the  usual  salutes. 


THE  GIAOUR. 


77 


Sullen  it  plunged,  and  slowly  sank, 
Tlie  calm  wave  rippled  to  the  bank ; 
I  watch'd  it  as  it  sank,  methought 
Some  motion  from  the  current  caught 
Beetirr'd  it  more, — 'twas  but  the  beam 
That  checkered  o'er  the  living  stream : 
I  gazed,  till  vanishing  from  view, 
Like  leesening  pebble  it  withdrew ; 
Still  less  and  less,  a  ^ck  of  white 
That  gemm'd  the  tide,  then  mock'd  the  sight ; 
And  lUl  its  hidden  secrets  sleep, 
Known  but  to  Genii  of  the  deep, 
Which,  trembling  in  their  coral  caves, 
They  dare  not  whiqier  to  the  waves. 


As  rising  on  its  purple  wing 
The  insect-queen*  of  eastern  spring, 
O'er  emerald  meadows  of  Kashmeer 
Invites  the  young  pursuer  near. 
And  leads  him  on  fhrni  flower  to  flower 
A  weary  chase  and  wasted  hour. 
Then  leaves  him,  as  it  soars  on  high. 
With  panting  heart  and  tearful  eve : 
So  Beauty  lures  the  full-grown  child, 
With  hue  as  bright,  and  wing  as  wild ; 
A  chase  of  idle  hopes  and  fears, 
Begun  in  folly,  closed  in  tean. 
If  won,  to  equal  ills  betray'd,' 
Wo  waits  the  insect  and  the  maid ; 
A  life  of  pain,  the  loss  of  peace, 
From  infant's  play,  and  man's  caprice : 
The  lovely  toy  so  fiercely  sought 
Hath  lost  its  charm  by  being  caught. 
For  every  touch  that  woo'd  its  stay 
Hath  brush'd  its  brightest  hues  away, 
TUX  charm,  and  hue,  and  beauty  gone, 
Tis  left  to  fly  or  fall  alone. 
Witli  wounded  wing,  or  bleeding  breast, 
Ah !  where  shall  either  victim  rest? 
Can  this  with  faded  pinion  soar 
From  rose  to  tulip  as  before  7 
Or  Beauty,  blighted  in  an  hour, 
Find  joy  within  her  broken  bower  7 
No :  gayer  insects  fluttering  by 
Ne'er  droq>  the  wing  o'er  those  that  die. 
And  lovelier  things  have  mercy  shown 
To  every  failing  but  their  own, 
And  every  wo  a  tear  can  claim 
Except  an  erring  sister's  shame. 


The  Mmd,  that  broods  o'er  guilty  woes, 

la  like  the  Scorpion  girt  by  fire,* 
In  circle  narrowm^  as  it  glows,* 
The  flames  around  theur  captive  close. 


1  The  blue-winged  butterfly  of  Kashmeer,  the  most  rare 
snd  beautiful  of  the  species. 

*  ('<  If  caught,  to  (ate  alike  betrayed.''— MS.] 
'  [Mr.  Dallas  sa^^,  that  Lord  Byron  assured  him  that  the 
paragraph  containing  the  simile  of  the  scorpion  was  im- 
agined m  his  sleep.  It  forms^  therefore,  a  ptndant  to  the 
•*  psychological  curiosity,"  beginning  with  those  exquisitely 
musical  lilies  :— 

"  A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 
In  a  vision  once  I  saw ; 
It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid,"  fcc. 

The  whole  of  which.  Mr.  Coleridge  says,  was  composed  by 
Mm  during  a  siesta.] 


Tin  mly  searched  by  thousand  throes, 

And  maddening  in  her  ire, 
One  sad  and  sole  relief  she  knows, 
Tlie  sting  she  nourish 'd  for  her  foes. 
Whose  venom  never  yet  was  vain. 
Gives  but  one  pang,  aud  cures  all  pain. 
And  darts  into  her  desperate  brain  * 
So  do  the  dark  in  soul  expire, 
Or  live  like  Scorpion  girt  by  fire  f 
So  writhes  the  miud  Kemorse  hath  ixvmi,* 
Unfit  for  earth,  undoom'd  for  heaven. 
Darkness  above,  despair  beneath. 
Around  it  flame,  within  it  death ! 


Black  Hassan  from  the  Harem  ^es. 
Nor  bends  on  woman's  form  his  eyes , 
The  unwonted  chase  each  hour  employs, 
Yet  shares  he  not  the  hunter's  joys. 
Not  thus  was  Hassan  wont  to  fly 
When  Leila  dwelt  in  his  SeraL 
Doth  Leila  there  no  longer  dwell? 
That  tale  can  only  Hassan  tell : 
Strange  rumora  in  our  city  say 
Upon  that  eve  she  fled  away 
When  Rhamazan's''  last  sun  was  set, 
Aud  flashing  from  each  minaret 
Millions  of  lamps  proclaim'd  the  feast 
Of  Bairam  through  the  boundless  East. 
'Twas  then  she  went  as  to  the  bath, 
Which  Hassan  vainly  search'd  in  wrath  ; 
For  she  was  flown  her  master's  rage 
In  likeness  of  a  Georgian  page. 
And  far  beyond  the  Moslem's  power 
Had  WTong'd  him  with  the  faithless  Giaour 
Somewhat  of  this  had  Hassan  deem'd  ; 
But  still  so  fond,  so  fair  she  seem'd, 
Too  well  he  trusted  to  the  slave 
Whose  treachery  deserved  a  grave : 
And  on  that  eve  had  gone  to  mosque. 
And  thence  to  feast  m  his  kiosk. 
Such  is  the  tale  his  Nubians  tell. 
Who  did  not  watch  their  charge  too  well ; 
But  others  say,  that  on  that  night, 
By  pale  Phingari's"  trembling  light. 
The  Giaour  upon  his  jet-black  steeid 
Was  seen,  but  seen  alone  to  speed 
With  bloody  spur  along  the  shore. 
Nor  maid  nor  page  behind  him  bore. 


Her  eye's  dark  charm  'twere  vam  to  tell. 
But  gaze  on  that  of  the  Gazelle, 
It  wUl  asnst  thy  fancy  well ; 
Aa  large,  as  languishindy  dark. 
But  S^  beam'd  forth  m  every  t 


I  every  qiark 


•  ['*  The  gathering  flames  around  her  close.^—MSL  ] 

•  Alluding  to  the  dubious  suicide  of  the  scorpion,  so  placed 
for  experiment  bv  gentle  philosophers.  Some  maintam  that 
the  position  of  the  sting,  when  turned  towards  the  head,  is 
merely  a  conntlsive  movement ;  but  others  hare  actually 
brougot  in  the  verdict  "  Felo  de  se."  The  scorpions  are 
surely  interested  in  a  speedy  decision  of  the  question ;  as, 
if  once  fairly  established  as  insect  Catos,  they  will  probably 
be  allowed  to  live  as  long  as  they  think  proper,  without 
being  martyred  for  the  sake  of  an  hypothesis. 

•  f "  So  writhes  the  mind  by  Conscience  riven."— MS.] 

^  The  cannon  at  sunset  close  the  Rhamazan.    See  mUi, 
p.  79,  note. 
«  Phingari,  the  moon. 


78 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


That  darted  (wm  beneath  the  hd, 
Bright  as  the  jewel  of  Oiamschki' 
Yea,  Soul,  and  dionld  our  prophet  say 
That  fonn  was  naught  but  breathing  clayt 
By  Alia !  I  would  answer  nay ; 
Thoufh  on  Al-SiratV  aich  I  stood, 
Which  tottera  o'er  the  fiery  flood, 
With  Paradise  within  my  view, 
And  all  his  Houris*  beckoning  thiousfa. 
Oh  !  who  young  Leila's  glance  could  read 
And  keep  that  portion  of  his  creed, 
Which  saith  that  woman  is  but  dost, 
A  soulless  toy  for  tjrrant's  lust  7* 
On  her  might  Muftis  gaze,  and  own 
That  throi^[h  her  eye  the  Immortal  f 
On  her  fair  cheek's  unfading  hue 
The  young  pomegranato's*  blossoms  strew 
Tlieir  bloom  in  blushes  ever  new ; 
Her  hair  in  hyacinthine*  flow, 
When  left  to  roll  its  folds  below, 
As  midst  her  handmaids  in  the  hall 
She  stood  superior  to  them  all, 
Hath  swept  the  marble  where  her  feet 
Gleam'd  whitor  than  the  mountain  sleet 
i^re  <rom  the  cloud  that  gave  it  birth 
It  fell,  and  caught  one  stain  of  earth. 
The  cygnet  nobly  walks  the  water ; 
So  moved  on  earth  Circaasia's  daufffater, 
The  loveliest  bird  of  Franguestan? 
As  rears  her  crest  the  ruffled  Swan, 

And  spurns  the  wave  with  wings  of  pride. 
When  pass  the  stops  of  stranger  man 

Along  the  banks  that  bound  her  tide ; 
Thus  rose  fair  Leila's  whitor  neck : — 
Thus  arm'd  with  beauty  would  she  check 
Intrusion's  glance,  till  Folly's  gaze 
Shrunk  from  the  charms  it  meant  to  praise : 
Thus  high  and  graceful  was  her  gait ; 
Her  heart  as  tender  to  her  mate ; 
Her  mate  —stem  Hassan,  who  was  he  7 
Alas !  that  name  was  not  for  thee ! 


Stom  Hassan  hath  a  journey  ta'en 
With  twenty  vassals  in  his  train, 
Each  arm'd,  as  best  becomes  a  man. 
With  arquebusB  and  ataghan  ; 
The  chief  before,  as  deck'd  for  war. 
Bears  in  his  belt  the  scimitar 


1  The  celebrated  fabulous  ruby  of  Sultan  Oiamschid.  the 

embellisher  of  Istakhar :  from  its  splendor,  named  8cneb> 

fferag,  **  the  torch  of  night  ;'*  also  **  tne  cup  of  the  sun,'*  &c. 

In  the  first  edition,  "  Giamachid'»  was  written  as  a  word 

of  three  syllables ;  so  D'Herbelot  has  it ;  but  I  am  told 

Richardson  reduces  it  to  a  dissylluble,  and  writes  "  Jam- 

shid."    I  have  left  in  the  text  the  ortlioj^phy  of  the  one 

with  the  pronunciation  of  the  other.— fin  the  first  edition. 

Lord  Byron  had  used  this  word  as  a  trisyllable,—**  Bright 

as  the  gem  of  Giamschid,'*— but,  on  my  remarking  to  him, 

upon  the  authority  of  Richardson's  Persian  Dictionary, 

that  this  was  incorrect,  he  altered  it  to  *'  Bright  as  the  ruby 

of  Giamschid/'    On  seeing  this,  however,  1  wrote  to  him, 

,    "  that,  as  the  comparison  of  his  heroine's  eye  to  a  ruby 

I   might  unluckily  call  up  the  idea  of  its  being  bloodshot,  he 

!   had  better  chan^  the  line  to   **  Bright  as  the  Jewel  of 

I    Giamschid:**  which  he  accordingly  did,  in  the  following 

I   edition.— Mooai.] 

I  s  Al-Sirat,  the  bridg**  of  breadth,  narrower  than  the 
I  thieud  of  a  ifamished  spider,  and  sharper  than  the  edge  of  a 
'  sword,  over  which  the  Mussulmans  must  »kate  into  Para- 
'   di&e,  to  which  it  is  the  only  entrance ;  but  this  is  not  the 

iwur^t,  the  river  beneath  being  hell  itself,  into  which,  as  . 
may  be  expected,  the  unskilful  and  tender  of  foot  contnve  j 
L 


Stam'd  with  the  beet  of  Amaut  blood. 

When  in  the  pass  the  rebels  stood. 

And  few  retum'd  to  toll  the  tale 

Of  what  befell  m  Fame's  vale. 

The  pistols  which  his  girdle  bore 

Were  those  that  once  a  pasha  wore. 

Which  still,  tliough  gemm'd  and  boss'd  with  gokl, 

Even  robbers  tremble  to  behold. 

^Tis  said  he  goes  to  woo  a  bride 

More  true  than  her  who  left  his  side  ; 

Tlie  faithless  slave  that  broke  her  bower, 

And,  worse  than  faithless,  for  a  Giaour ! 


The  son's  last  rays  are  on  the  hiH, 
And  sparkle  in  the  fountain  rill. 
Whose  welcome  waters,  cool  and  clear, 
Draw  blessings  from  the  mountaineer : 
Here  may  the  loitoring  merchant  Greek 
Fmd  that  repose  'twere  vain  to  seek 
In  cities  lodged  too  near  his  lord, 
And  trembling  for  his  secret  hoard — 
Here  may  he  rest  where  none  can  see, 
In  crowds  a  slave,  in  deserts  free ; 
And  with  forbidden  wine  may  stain 
The  bowl  a  Moslem  must  not  drain. 


The  foremost  Tartor's  m  the  ga:p, 
Conspicuous  by  his  yellow  cap ; 
The  rest  in  leugthenm^  line  the  while 
Wind  slowly  tluDu^h  the  long  defile : 
Above,  the  mountain  rears  a  peak. 
Where  vultures  whet  the  thirsty  beak. 
And  theirs  may  be  a  feast  to-night. 
Shall  tompt  them  down  ere  morrow's  light ; 
Beneath,  a  river's  wintry  stream 
Has  shrunk  before  the  siunmer  beam, 
And  left  a  channel  bleak  and  bare, 
Save  shrubs  that  spring  to  perish  there : 
Each  side  the  midway  path  there  lay 
Small  broken  crags  of  granite  gray. 
By  time,  or  mountain  lightning,  riven 
From  summits  clad  in  mists  of  heaven ; 
For  where  is  he  that  hath  beheld 
The  peak  of  Liakura  unveil'd  7 


to  tumble  with  a  "fiacilis  descensus  Averni,**  not  very 
pleasing  in  prospect  to  the  next  passenger.  There  is  a 
shortor  cut  downwards  for  the  Jews  and  Cnristians. 

*  [The  virgins  of  Paradise,  called  from  their  large  black 
eyes,  Hwr  al  oyun.  An  intercourse  with  these,  according  to 
the  institution  of  Mahomet,  is  to  constitute  the  principal 
felicity  of  the  faithful.  Not  formed  of  clay,  like  moital 
women,  they  are  adorned  with  unfading  charms,  and  deem- 
ed to  possess  the  celestial  privilege  of  an  eternal  youth. 
See  D*Herbelot,  and  Sale's  Koran  ] 

*  A  vulgar  error :  the  Koran  allots  at  least  a  third  of 
Paradise  to  well-behaved  women ;  but  by  far  the  greater 
number  of  Mussulmans  interpret  the  text  their  own  way, 
and  exclude  their  moieties  from  heaven.  Beiiig  enemies 
to  Platonics,  they  cannot  discern  "  any  fitness  ofthings  *  in 
the  souls  of  the ,  other  sex,  conceiving  them  to  be  supec 
seded  by  the  Houris. 

*  An  oriental  simile,  which  may,  perhaps,  though  &  i.f 
stolen,  be  deemed  **  plus  Arabs  qu*en  Arable.'* 

«  Hyacinthine,  in  Arabic  **  Sunbul  ;*'  as  common  a  tnoufhl 
in  the  eastern  poets  as  it  was  among  the  Greeks 
Franguestan,**  Circassia 


THE  GIAOUR. 


79 


Hiey  reach  the  nove  of  pine  at  last : 
**  Bisimllah  !*  now  me  peril's  past ; 
For  yonder  view  the  openin^^  plain, 
And  there  we'll  prick  our  steeds  amain  :** 
The  Chiaus  spake,  and  as  he  said, 
A  bullet  whistled  o'er  his  head ; 
*nie  foremost  Tartar  bites  the  ground  !* 

Scarce  had  they  time  to  check  the  reiUi 
Swift  from  their  steeds  the  riders  bound ; 

But  three  shall  never  mount  again : 
Unseen  the  foes  that  gave  the  wound, 

The  dying  ask  revenge  in  vain. 
With  steel  unsfaeath'd,  and  carbine  bent, 
Some  o'er  their  courMr's  harness  leant. 

Half  sheltered  by  the  steed ; 
Some  fly  behind  the  nearest  rock, 
And  there  await  the  coming  shock, 

Nor  tamely  stand  to  Meed 
Beneath  the  shaft  of  foes  unseen, 
Who  dare  not  quit  their  craggy  screen. 
Stem  Hassan  only  from  his  hone 
Disdains  to  light,  and  keeps  his  courBO, 
Till  fiery  flashes  in  the  van 
Proclaim  too  sure  the  robber-clan 
Have  well  secured  the  only  way 
Could  now  avail  the  promised  prey ; 
Then  curl'd  his  very  beard*  with  ire, 
And  glared  his  eye  with  fiercer  fire : 
"  Though  far  and  near  the  bullets  hiss, 
I've  'scaped  a  bloodier  hour  than  this." 
And  now  the  foe  their  covert  quit. 
And  call  his  vassals  to  submit ; 
But  Hassan's  frown  and  furious  word 
Are  dreaded  more  than  hostile  sword. 
Nor  of  his  little  band  a  man 
Resign'd  carbine  or  ataghan, 
Nor  raised  the  craven  cry,  Amaun  !^ 
In  fuller  sight,  more  near  and  near, 
The  lately  ambush'd  foes  appear. 
And,  issuing  from  the  grove,  advance 
Some  who  on  battle-charger  prance. 
Who  leads  them  on  with  foreign  brand. 
Far  flashing  in  his  red  right  hand? 
•*  "Tis  he !  His  he  I  I  know  him  now ; 
I  know  him  by  his  pallid  brow ; 
I  know  him  by  the  evil  eye* 
That  aids  his  envious  treachery  ; 
I  know  him  by  his  jet-black  barb: 
Though  now  array'd  in  Amaut  garb, 
Apostote  from  his  own  vile  faith. 
It  shall  not  save  him  from  the  death : 
Tm  he?  well  m€   in  any  hour, 
Lost  Leila's  love,  accursed  Giaour !" 

As  rolls  the  river  into  ocean, 
In  sable  torrent  wildly  streaming ; 

As  the  sea-tide's  opposing  motion, 
I       In  azure  column  proudly  gleaming, 
I       Beats  back  the  current  many  a  nrnd, 
'       In  curling  foam  and  mingling  flood, 


1  Bismillah— *<  In  the  name  of  God  ;**  the  commencement 
of  all  the  chapters  of  the  Koran  but  one,  and  of  prayer  and 
thanksgiving. 

•  [**  Scarce  had  thev  time  to  check  the  rein, 
The  foremost  Tartar  bites  the  plain."- MS.] 

s  A  phenomenon  not  uncommon  with  an  angiy  Mussul- 
man. In  1809,  the  Capitan  Pacha*8  whiskers  at  a  mplomatic 
audience  were  no  less  lively  with  indignation  than  a  tiger 
cat's,  to  the  horror  of  all  the  dragomans ;  the  portentous 
Piustachios  twisted,  they  stood  erect  of  their  own  accord, 


While  eddying  whiri,  and  breakmg  wave. 
Roused  by  the  blast  of  winter,  rave  : 
Through  sparkling  spray,  in  thundering  clash, 
The  lightnings  of  the  waters  flash 
In  awful  whiteness  o'er  the  shore. 
That  shines  and  shakes  beneath  the  roar ; 
llius — as  the  stream  and  ocean  greet. 
With  waves  that  madden  as  they  meet — 
llius  join  the  bonuB,  whom  mutual  wrong. 
And  fate,  and  fury,  drive  along. 
The  bickering  sabres'  sliivering  jar ; 

And  pealing  wide  or  ringing  near 

Its  echoes  on  the  throbbing  ear. 
The  dcathshot  hissing  from  afar ; 
The  shock,  the  shout,  the  groan  of  war. 

Reverberate  along  that  vole. 

More  suited  to  the  shepherd's  tale : 
Though  few  the  numbers — theirs  the  strife. 
That  neither  spares  nor  speaks  for  life  !* 
Ah  !  fondly  youthful  hearts  can  press. 
To  seize  and  share  the  dear  caress ; 
But  Love  itself  could  never  pant 
For  all  that  Beauty  sighs  to  grunt 
With  half  the  fervor  Hate  bestows 
Upon  the  last  embrace  of  foes. 
When  grappling  m  the  fight  they  fold 
Those  arms  tliat  ne'er  shall  lose  their  hold : 
Friends  meet  to  part ;  Love  laughs  at  faith ; 
True  foes,  once  met,  are  join'd  till  death ! 
•  •  •  •  • 


With  sabre  shiver'd  to  the  hilt. 
Yet  dripping  with  the  blood  he  spilt ; 
Yet  strain'd  within  the  sever'd  hand 
Which  quivers  round  that  faithless  brand ; 
His  turban  far  behind  him  roU'd, 
And  cleft  in  twain  its  firmest  fold ; 
His  flowing  robe  by  falchion  torn, 
And  crimson  as  those  clouds  of  mom 
That,  streak'd  with  dusky  red,  portend 
The  day  shall  have  a  stormy  end ; 
A  stain  on  every  bush  that  bore 
A  fhigment  of  his  palampore,^ 
His  breast  with  wounds  unnumber'd  riven. 
His  back  to  earth,  his  face  to  heaven, 
Fall'n  Hassan  Ues — his  unclosed  eye 
Yet  lowering  on  his  enemy, 
As  if  the  hour  that  seal'd  his  fate 
Surviving  left  his  quenchless  hate ; 
And  o'er  him  bendiB  that  foe  with  brow 
As  dark  as  his  that  Med  below.— 

•  •  •  •  • 


«  Yes,  Leila  sleeps  beneath  the  wave. 
But  his  shall  be  a  redder  grave ; 
Her  spirit  pointed  well  the  steel 
Which  taught  that  felon  heart  to  feeL 
He  call'd  the  Prophet,  but  his  power 
Was  vain  agauist  the  vengeful  Giaour : 


and  were  expected  every  moment  to  change  their  color,  but 
at  last  condescended  to  subside,  which,  probably,  saved  more 
heads  than  they  contained  hairs. 

*  "Amaun,"  quarter,  pardon. 

•  The  *'  evil  eye,"  a  common  superstition  in  the  Levant, 
and  of  which  the  imaginary  eflfects  are  vet  very  singular  on 
those  who  concdTe  tneiuselv^  affected. 

« ["  That  neither  gives  nor  asks  for  life."— MS.] 

"f  The  flowered  shawls  generally  worn  by  persons  of  ranlr. 


80 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


He  cull'd  on  AHa — but  the  word 

Arose  uuheeded  or  unheard. 

Thou  Paynim  fool !  could  Leila's  prayer 

Be  passed,  and  tliine  accorded  there  ? 

I  watch'd  my  time,  I  leaded  with  theee, 

The  traitor  m  his  turn  to  seize ; 

My  wrath  is  wreak'd,  the  deed  is  done, 

And  now  I  go— 4)ut  go  alone." 

*  »  •  •  « 


The  browsing  camels'  bells  are  tinkling  :* 
His  Mother  look'd  from  her  lattice  high — * 

She  saw  the  dews  of  eve  bespriuklmg 
The  pasture  green  beneath  her  eye, 

She  saw  the  planets  famtly  twinkling : 
"  *Tis  twilight — sure  his  train  is  nigh."' 
She  could  not  rest  in  the  garden-bower, 
But  gazed  through  the  grate  of  his  steepest  tower : 
"  Why  comes  he  not?  his  steeds  are  fleet, 

t       Nor  shrink  they  from  the  summer  heat ; 

'       Why  sends  not  the  Bridegroom  his  promised  gift? 
Is  his  heart  more  cold,  or  his  barb  less  swift  ^ 
Oh,  false  reproach !  yon  Tartar  now 
Has  gain'd  our  near»Eit  mountain's  brow, 
And  warily  the  steep  descends, 
And  now  within  the  valley  bends ; 
And  he  bears  the  gift  at  his  saddle  bow — 
How  could  I  deem  his  courser  slow? 
Right  well  my  largess  shall  repay 
His  welcome  speed,  and  weary  way." 

The  Tartar  lighted  at  the  ^te. 

But  scarce  upheld  his  faintmg  weight  :* 

His  swarthy  visage  spake  distress. 

But  this  might  be  from  weariness ; 

His  garb  with  sanguine  spots  was  dyed. 

But  these  might  be  from  his  courser's  side ; 

He  drew  the  token  from  his  vest — 

Angel  of  Death  !  'tis  Hassan's  cloven  crest ! 

His  calpac*  rent — his  caftan  red — 

*'  Lady,  a  fearful  bride  thy  Son  hath  wed : 


UThis  beautiful  passage  first  appeared  in  the  filth  edition. 
"If  you  send  more  proofe,"  wntes  Lord  Byron  to  Mr. 
Murray,  (August  lOtb,  1813,)  <*  I  shall  never  finish  this  in- 
fernal story.  Ecce  ngnum—ihiTty-three  more  lines  enclosed ! 
—to  the  utter  discomfitiu^  of  the  printer,  and,  J  fear,  not  to 
your  advantage.**] 

*  ["  The  mother  of  Sisera  looked  out  at  a  window,  and 
cried  through  the  lattice.  Why  is  his  chariot  so  long  in 
cominff  ?  why  tarry  the  wheels  of  his  chariot  ?"— Judges,  c. 

*  [In  the  original  draft— 

'*  His  mother  iook*d  from  the  lattice  high, 
With  throbbing  heart  and  eager  eye ; 
The  browsing  camel  bells  are  tmkling, 
And  the  last  beam  of  twilight  twinkling, 
'Tis  eve ;  his  train  should  now  be  nigh. 
She  could  not  rest  in  her  garden  bower, 
And  gazed  through  the  loop  of  his  steepest  towei 
*  Why  comes  he  not  7  his  steeds  are  fleet. 
And  well  are  they  trained  to  the  summer's  heat.*  ** 
Another  copy  begins— 

«  The  browsing  camel  bells  are  tinkling, 
And  the  first  beam  of  evening  twinklmg ; 
His  mother  Jook*d  from  her  Uttice  high, 
With  throbbing  breast  and  eager  eye— 
♦Tis  twilight— sure  his  train  is  nigh.' "] 
I '  '  The  Tartar  sped  beneath  the  gate. 

And  fiung  to  earth  his  fainting  weight"— MS.] 
»  The  calpac  is  the  solid  cap  or  centre  port  of  the  bead- 
dress  ;  the  shawl  is  wound  round  it,  and  forms  the  turban. 
«  The  turban*  pillar^  and  inscriptive  verse,  decorate  the 
tombs  of  the  Osmanhes,  whether  in  the  cemetery  or  the 
wilderness.    In  the  mountains  you  frequently  pass  similar 


Me,  not  from  mercy,  did  they  spare, 
But  this  impurpled  pledge  to  bear. 
Peace  to  the  brave !  whose  Mood  is  spilt : 
Wo  to  the  Giaour !  for  his  the  guilt" 

•  «  «  *  • 

A  turban*  carved  in  coarsest  stone, 
A  pillar  with  rank  weeds  o'ergrown, 
Whereon  can  now  be  scarcely  read 
The  Koran  verse  that  mourns  the  dead, 
Point  out  the  spot  where  Hassan  fell 
A  victim  in  that  lonely  delL 
There  sleeps  as  true  an  Osmanlle 
As  e'er  at  Mecca  bent  the  knee ; 
As  ever  scom'd  forbidden  wine. 
Or  pray'd  with  face  towards  the  shrine, 
In  orisons  resumed  anew 
At  solemn  sound  of  «  AUa  Hu  !"^ 
Yet  died  he  by  a  stranger's  hand, 
And  stranger  in  his  native  laud ; 
Yet  died  he  as  in  arms  he  stood. 
And  unavenged,  at  least  in  blood. 
But  him  the  maids  of  Paradise 

Impatient  to  their  halls  invite. 
And  the  dark  Heaven  of  Houris*  eyes 

On  bun  shall  glance  forever  bright ; 
They  come — their  kerchiefs  green  they  wave,* 
And  welcome  with  a  kiss  the  brave ! 
Who  falls  in  battle  'gainst  a  Giaour 
Is  worthiest  an  immortal  bower. 


But  thou,  false  Infidel !  shalt  writhe 
Beneath  avenging  Monkir's^  scythe ; 
And  from  its  torment  'scape  alone 
To  wander  round  lost  Eblis"*  throne ; 
And  fire  unquench'd,  unquenchable. 
Around,  within,  thy  heart  shall  dwell ; 
Nor  ear  can  hear  nor  tongue  can  tell 
The  tortures  of  that  inward  hell ! 
But  first,  on  earth  as  Vampire^^  sent. 
Thy  corse  shall  from  its  tomb  be  rent : 

mementoes ;  and  on  inquiry  you  are  informed  that  they  re- 
cord some  victim  of  rebellion,  plunder,  or  revenge. 

'  "  Alia  Hu !"  the  concluding  words  of  the  Muezzin's  call 
to  prayer  from  the  highest  gallery  on  the  exterior  of  the 
minaret.  On  a  still  evening,  when  the  Muezzin  has  a  fine 
voice,  which  is  freauently  the  case,  the  effect  is  solemn  and 
beautiful  beyond  all  the  bells  in  Christendom.— [Valid,  the 
son  of  Abdalmalek,  was  the  first  who  erected  a  minaret  or 
turret ;  and  this  he  placed  on  the  grand  mosque  at  Damascus, 
for  the  muezzin,  or  crier,  to  amiounce  from  it  the  hour  or 
prayer.    The  practice  is  kept  to  this  day.    See  D'Herbelot.] 

•  The  following  is  part  of  a  battle  song  of  the  Turks  :— 
"  I  see— I  see  a  dark-eyed  girl  of  Paradise,  and  she  waves 
a  handkerchief,  a  kerchief  of  green ;  and  cries  aloud,  *  Come, 
kiss  me,  for  I  love  thee,' "  &c. 

*  Monkir  and  Nekir  are  the  inquisitors  of  the  dead,  before 
whom  the  corpse  undergoes  a  sbght  novitiate  and  prepara- 
tory training  for  damnaUon.  If  the  answers  are  none  of  the 
clearest,  he  is  hauled  up  with  a  scytlie  and  thumped  down 
with  a  red-hot  mace  till  properly  seasoned,  with  a  variety 
of  subsidiary  probations.  The  office  of  these  angels  is  no 
sinecure ;  there  are  but  two,  and  the  number  of  orthodox  de- 
ceased being  in  a  small  proportion  to  the  remainder,  their 
bands  are  always  full.  See  Relig.  Ceremon.  and  Sale's 
Koran. 

»  EbUs,  the  Oriental  Prince  of  Darkness.— [D'Herbelot 
supposes  this  title  to  have  been  a  corruption  of  the  Greek 
^tdSoXoi.  According  to  Arabian  mythology,  Eblis  had 
suffered  a  degradation  from  his  primeval  rank  for  having 
refused  to  worship  Adam,  in  conformity  to  the  supreme 
command ;  alleging,  in  justification  of  his  refusal,  that  him- 
self had  been  formed  of  ethereal  fire,  whilst  Adam  was  only 
a  creature  of  clay.    See  Koran.] 

u  The  Vampire  superstition  is  still  general  in  the  Levant. 
Honest  Toumefort  tells  a  long  stoiy,  which  Mr.  Southey,  in 
the  notes  on  Thalaba,  quotes,  about  those  **  VroueoloctiM,*' 


THE  GIAOUR. 


81 


Then  ghastly  haimt  thy  natiTB  place. 
And  suck  the  blood  of  all  thy  race ; 
There  from  thy  daughter,  sister,  wife, 
At  midnight  drain  the  stream  of  life ; 
Yet  loathe  the  banquet  which  perforce 
Must  feed  thy  livid  living  corse : 
Thy  \ictims  ere  they  yet  expire 
Shall  know  the  demon  for  their  sire, 
As  cursing  thee,  thou  cursing  them, 
Thy  flowers  are  wither*d  on  the  stem. 
But  one  that  for  thy  crime  must  fall, 
The  youngest,  most  beloved  of  all, 
Shall  bless  thee  with  a  father^ 9  name — 
That  word  shall  wrap  thy  heart  in  flame  I 
Yet  nust  thou  end  thy  task,  and  mark 
Her  cheek's  last  tinge,  her  eye's  last  spark, 
And  the  last  glassy  glance  must  view 
Which  freezes  o'er  its  lifeless  blue ; 
Then  with  unhallow'd  hand  shalt  tear 
The  tresses  of  her  yeUow  hair. 
Of  which  in  life  a  lock  when  shorn 
Afiection's  fondest  pledge  was  worn. 
But  now  is  borne  away  by  thee. 
Memorial  of  thine  agony  ! 
Wet  with  thine  own  best  blood  shall  drip* 
Thy  gnashing  tooth  and  haggard  lip ; 
Then  stalking  to  thy  sullen  grave, 
Go^and  with  Gouls  and  Afrits  rave  ; 
Till  these  in  horror  shrink  away 
From  spectre  more  accursed  than  they  !* 
»  »  •  *  « 

"  How  name  ye  yon  lone  Caloyer  7 

His  features  I  have  scann'd  before 
In  mine  own  land :  'tis  many  a  year. 
Since,  dashing  by  the  lonely  ^ore, 
I  saw  him  urge  as  fleet  a  steed 
As  ever  serv^  a  horseman's  need. 
But  once  I  saw  that  face,  yet  then 
It  was  so  mark'd  with  inward  pain, 
I  could  not  pass  it  by  again  ; 
It  breathes  the  same  dark  spirit  now. 
As  death  were  stamp'd  upon  his  brow. 

"  Tis  twice  three  years  at  summer  tide 
Since  first  among  our  frores  he  came  ; 

And  here  it  soothes  him  to  abide 
For  some  dark  deed  he  will  not  name 

But  never  at  our  vesper  prayer, 

Nor  e'er  before  confession  chair 

Kneels  he,  nor  recks  he  when  arise 

Incense  or  anthem  to  the  skies. 

But  broods  within  his  cell  alone, 

His  faith  and  race  alike  unknown. 


as  he  calls  them.  The  Komaic  term  is  "  Vardoulacha."  I 
recollect  a  whole  family  being  terrified  by  the  scream  of  a 
child,  r.'*'"'"*'  ♦^♦*"  i^^^jxt^A  rr,.i.i«  t^roceed  from  such  a  visit- 
aHoQ.  i  1 1  <  r  '1  ^  - 1  :i  r ;  i  I  ,ri  the  word  without  horror. 
I  find  tjiin  '-  Jt;.j:ij.j;  >kiiii''  j^  Liii  ull  legitimate  Hellenic  ap- 
pellation—ai  LeosE  IS  so  applied  lo  Arseniusu  who,  according 
to  the  C  vffk^,  w;u?  Eiftcr  his  death  Animated  by  the  DeviL— 
The  mfHlem*,  however,  use  itip  ^ord  I  mention. 

»  The  frtijhiie-'^?  ff  the  fjace*  ni>J  the  wetness  of  the  lip 
with  blo<j*l]  iirf"  the  uyvenfaaliug  signs  of  a  Vampire.  The 
stories  toll!  m  Htma^aiy  firui  CJ  recce  of  these  foul  feeders 
are  singular,  And  some  of  Uicm  most  inerediblf  attested. 

s  [Wiib  thi^  detikth  of  l^u^saji.or  with  his  interment  on  the 
plara  v^  Nrre  he  rcil,  ^r  uith  ^vmt:  moral  reflections  on  his 
late,  wk'  mAf  pr^simie  tliai  ilif  ongiiial  narrator  concluded 
tlik  tak  of  wkich  Li>M  ByrpQ  luii  (jrofessed  togive  us  a  firag- 


11 


The  sea  from  Paynim  land  he  cross'd. 
And  here  ascended  from  the  coast ; 
Yet  seems  he  not  of  Othman  race. 
But  only  Christian  in  his  face : 
I'd  judge  him  some  stray  renegade. 
Repentant  of  the  change  he  xniade, 
Save  that  he  shuns  our  holy  shrine. 
Nor  tastes  the  sacred  bread  and  wine. 
Great  largess  to  these  walls  he  brought, 
And  thus  our  abbot's  favor  bought ; 
But  were  I  prior,  not  a  day 
Should  brook  such  stranger's  further  stay, 
Or  pent  within  our  penance  cell 
Should  doom  him  there  for  aye  to  dwell 
Much  in  his  visions  mutters  he 
Of  maiden  whehn'd  beneath  the  sea  f 
Of  sabres  clashing,  foemen  flying. 
Wrongs  avenged,  and  Moslem  dying. 
On  elm*  he  hath  been  known  to  stand. 
And  rave  as  to  some  bloody  hand 
Fresh  sever'd  from  its  parent  limb. 
Invisible  to  all  but  him. 
Which  beckons  onward  to  his  grave. 
And  lures  to  leap  into  the  wave." 

•  •  •  «  » 


Dark  and  unearthly  is  the  scowl* 

That  glares  beneath  his  dusky  cowl : 

The  £sh  of  that  dilating  eye 

Reveals  too  much  of  times  gone  by ; 

Though  varying,  indistinct  its  hue. 

Oft  will  his  glance  the  gazer  rue. 

For  in  it  lurks  that  nameless  speU, 

Which  speaks,  itself  unspeakable, 

A  spirit  yet  unquell'd  and  high. 

That  claims  and  keeps  ascendency  ; 

And  like  the  bird  whose  pinions  quake, 

But  cannot  fly  the  gazing  snake. 

Will  others  quail  beueatli  his  look. 

Nor  'scape  the  glance  they  scarce  can  brook 

From  him  the  half-affiighted  Friar 

When  met  alone  would  fain  retire, 

As  if  that  eye  and  bitter  smile 

Transferr'd  to  others  fear  and  guile : 

Not  oft  to  smile  descendeth  he. 

And  when  he  doth  'tis  sad  to  see 

That  he  but  mocks  at  Misery. 

How  that  pale  lip  will  curl  and  quiver ! 

Then  fix  once  more  as  if  forever ; 

As  if  his  sorrow  or  disdain 

Foibade  him  e'er  to  smile  again. 

Well  were  it  so — such  ghasUy  mirth 

From  joyaunce  ne'er  derived  its  birth. 


ment.  But  every  reader,  we  are  sure,  will  agree  with  us  in 
thinking,  that  the  interest  excited  by  the  catastrophe  is 
greatly  heightened  in  the  modem  poem ;  and  that  tne  im- 
precations of  the  Turk  against  the  '*  accursed  Giaour,"  are 
mtroduced  with  great  judgment,  and  contribute  much  to 
the  dramatic  effect  of  the  narrative.  The  remainder  of  the 
poem,  we  think,  would  have  been  mote  properly  printed  as 
a  second  canto ;  because  a  total  change  of  scene,  and  a 
chasm  uf  no  less  than  six  years  in  the  series  of  events,  can 
scarcely  fail  to  occasion  some  little  confusion  in  the  mind 
of  the  reader.— Oboroe  Ellis.] 

*  ["  Of  foreign  maiden  lost  at  sea."— MS.] 

« [The  remaining  lines,  about  five  hundred  in  number, 
were,  with  the  exception  of  the  last  sixteen,  all  added  to 
the  poem,  either  during  its  first  progress  through  the  press, 
or  in  subsequent  editions.] 


82 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


But  ladder  still  it  were  to  trace 

What  ouce  were  feelings  in  that  face : 

Time  hath  not  yet  the  features  fiz'd, 

But  brighter  traits  with  evil  mixM ; 

And  there  are  hues  not  always  faded, 

Wliich  speak  a  mind  not  all  degraded 

Even  by  the  crimes  through  which  it  waded : 

The  common  crowd  but  see  the  gloom 

Of  wayward  deeds,  and  fittmg  doom ; 

The  close  observer  can  espy 

A  noble  soul,  and  lineage  high : 

Alas !  though  both  bestow'd  in  vain. 

Which  Grief  could  change,  and  Gnitt  could  stain, 

It  was  no  vulgar  tenement 

To  which  such  lofty  gifts  were  lent. 

And  still  with  little  less  than  dread 

On  such  the  sight  is  riveted. 

The  roofless  cot,  decay'd  and  rent, 

Will  scarce  delay  the  passer  by ; 
The  tower  by  war  or  tempest  bent, 
While  yet  may  frown  one  battlement. 

Demands  and  daunts  the  stranger's  eye ; 
Each  ivied  arch,  and  pillar  lone. 
Pleads  haughtily  for  glories  gone ! 

"  His  floating  robe  around  him  folding, 

Slow  sweeps  he  through  the  column'd  aisle ; 

With  dread  beheld,  with  gloom  beholding 
The  rites  that  sanctify  the  pile. 

But  when  the  anthem  shakes  the  choir. 

And  kneel  the  monks,  his  steps  retire ; 

By  yonder  lone  and  wavering  torch 

Hjs  aspect  glares  within  the  porch ; 

There  will  be  pause  till  all  is  done— 

And  hear  the  prayer,  but  utter  none. 

See^ — ^by  the  half-illumined  wall^ 

His  hood  fly  back,  his  dark  hair  fall. 

That  pale  brow  wildly  wreathing  round, 

As  if  the  Goigon  there  had  bound 

The  sablest  of  the  serpent-braid 

That  o*er  her  fearful  forehead  stray*d : 

For  he  declines  the  convent  oath. 

And  leaves  those  locks  unhallow'd  growth, 

But  wears  our  garb  in  all  beside ; 

And,  not  from  piety  but  pride. 

Gives  wealth  to  widls  that  never  heard 

Of  his  one  holy  vow  nor  word. 

Lo  l^mark  ye,  as  the  harmony 

Peals  louder  praises  to  the  d^y. 

That  livid  cheek,  that  stony  air 

Of  mix'd  defiance  and  despair  I 

Saint  Francis,  keep  him  from  the  shrine ! 

Else  may  ^)  drW  the  wrath  divine 

Made  nmnifest  i//  awful  sign. 

If  ever  evil  angel  bore 

The  form  of  mortal,  such  he  wore : 

By  all  my  hope  of  sins  forgiven, 

Such  looks  are  not  of  earth  nor  heaven  !** 


t  ["  Behold-as  turns  he  from  the  walL**— MS.J 

s  [**  Must  bum  before  it  smite  or  shine.'*— MS.] 

s  [Seeio^  himself  accused  of  hsTing,  in  this  passage,  too 
dosely  imitated  Crabbe,  Lord  Byron  wrote  to  a  friend—**  I 
have  read  the  British  Review,  and  really  think  the  writer  in 
most  points  very  right.  The  only  mortifying  thing  is,  the 
accusation  of  inutanon.  Crabbe's  passage  I  never  saw ;  and 
Scott  I  no  further  meant  to  follow  thui  m  his  1^  measure, 
which  is  Gray's,  Milton's,  and  any  one's  who  ukes  it.  The 
Oiaour  is  certainly  a  bad  character,  but  not  dangerous ;  and 
1  think  his  fate  and  his  feelings  will  meet  with  few  prose- 


To  love  the  softest  hearts  are  prone, 

But  such  can  ne'er  be  all  his  own ; 

Too  timid  m  his  woes  to  share. 

Too  meek  to  meet,  or  brave  despair ; 

And  sterner  hearts  alone  may  feel 

The  wound  that  time  can  never  heal 

The  rugged  metal  of  the  mine. 

Must  bum  before  its  surface  shine,' 

But  plunged  within  the  fiimace-flame. 

It  bends  and  melts — though  still  the  same ;' 

Then  tempered  to  thy  want,  or  will, 

'TwQl  serve  thee  to  defend  or  kill ; 

A  breastplate  for  thuie  hour  of  need, 

Or  blade  to  bid  thy  foeman  bleed ; 

But  if  a  dagger's  form  it  bear. 

Let  those  who  shape  its  edge,  beware  ! 

Thus  passion's  fire,  and  woman's  art. 

Can  turn  and  tame  the  steraer  heart ; 

From  these  its  form  and  tone  are  ta'en. 

And  what  they  make  it,  must  remain, 

But  break — before  it  bend  again. 

•  •  •  «  • 

If  solitude  succeed  to  grief, 
■  Release  from  pain  is  slight  relief; 
The  vacant  bosom's  wilderness 
Might  thank  the  pang  that  made  it  less. 
We  loathe  what  none  are  left  to  share : 
Even  bliss — ^'twere  wo  alone  to  bear; 
The  heart  once  left  thus  desolate 
Must  fly  at  last  for  ease — to  hate. 
It  is  as  if  the  dead  could  feel 
The  icy  worm  around  them  steal, 
And  shudder,  as  the  reptiles  creep 
To  revel  o'er  their  rotting  sleep. 
Without  the  power  to  scare  away 
The  cold  consumers  of  their  clay ! 
It  is  as  if  the  desert-bird,* 

Whoee  beak  unlocks  her  bosom's  stream 

To  still  her  famish'd  nestlrngB*  scream. 
Nor  mourns  a  life  to  them  transferred. 
Should  rend  her  rash  devoted  breast. 
And  find  them  flown  her  empty  nest 
The  keenest  pangs  the  wretched  find 

Are  rapture  to  the  dreary  void. 
The  leafless  desert  of  the  mind. 

The  waste  of  feelings  unemploy'd. 
Who  would  be  doom'd  to  gaze  upon 
A  sky  without  a  cloud  or  sun? 
Less  hideous  far  the  tempest's  roar 
Than  ne'er  to  brave  the  billows  more- 
Thrown,  when  the  war  of  ninds  is  o'er, 
A  lonely  wreck  on  fortune's  shore, 
'Biid  sullen  cahn,  and  silent  bay. 
Unseen  to  drop  by  dull  decay ; — 
Better  to  smk  beneath  the  shock 
Than  moulder  piecemeal  on  the  rock ! 


lytes.**    The  following  are  the  Unes  of  Crabbe  which  hotd 
Byron  is  charged  with  having  imitated  :— 

**  These  are  like  wax— apply  them  to  the  fire, 
Melting,  they  take  the  impression  you  desire 
Easy  to  mould  and  fashion  as  you  please, 
And  again  moulded  with  an  equal  ease ; 
Like  smelted  iron  these  the  forms  retain, 
But  once  unpress'd  will  never  melt  again.'*— 

Crabbe's  Works,  vol.  v.  p.  103,  ed.  1884  } 

«  The  pelican  is,  I  believe,  the  bird  so  libelled,  by  t)a  ns- 
putation  of  feeding  her  chickens  with  her  blood. 


THE  GIAOUR. 


83 


"  Father !  thy  days  have  paas'd  iu  peace, 

'Mid  counted  beads,  and  couutleflB  prayer ; 
To  bid  the  siiig  of  othen  cease, 

Thyself  without  a  crime  or  care. 
Save  transient  ills  that  all  must  bear, 
Has  been  thy  lot  from  youth  to  age  ; 
And  thou  wilt  bless  thee  from  the  rage 
Of  passions  fierce  and  uucoutroll'd, 
Such  as  thy  penitents  unfold, 
Whose  secret  sins  and  sorrows  rest 
Within  thy  pure  and  pitying  breast. 
My  days,  though  few,  have  pass'd  below 
In  much  of  joy,  but  more  of  wo ; 
Yet  still  in  hours  of  love  or  strife, 
I  Ve  'scaped  the  wearinesB  of  life : 
Now  leagued  with  friends,  now  girt  by  foes, 
I  loathed  the  languor  of  repose. 
Now  nothing  left  to  love  or  hate, 
No  more  wiSi  hope  or  pride  elate, 
I'd  rather  be  the  thing  that  crawls 
Most  noxious  o'er  a  dungeon's  walls, 
Than  pass  my  dull,  unvarying  days, 
Condemn'd  to  meditate  and  gaze. 
Yet,  lurks  a  wish  within  my  breast 
For  rest — but  not  to  feel  'tis  rest 
Soon  shall  my  fate  that  wish  fulfil ; 

And  I  shall  sleep  without  the  dream 
Of  what  I  was,  and  would  be  still, 

Dark  as  to  thee  my  deeds  may  seem :' 
My  memory  now  is  but  the  tomb 
Of  joys  long  dead ;  my  hope,  their  doom: 
Though  better  to  have  died  with  those 
Than  bear  a  life  of  lingering  woes. 
My  spirit  shrunk  not  to  sustain 
The  searching  throes  of  ceaseless  pom ; 
Nor  sought  the  self-accorded  grave 
Of  ancient  fool  and  modem  knave : 
Yet  death  I  have  not  fear'd  to  meet ; 
And  in  the  field  it  had  been  sweet. 
Had  danger  woo'd  me  on  to  move 
The  slave  of  glory,  not  of  love. 
Fve  braved  it — not  for  honor's  boast ; 
I  smile  at  laurels  won  or  lost ; 
To  such  let  othen  carve  their  way. 
For  high  renown,  or  hireling  pay : 
But  place  anun  before  my  eyes 
Aught  that  I  deem  a  worthy  prize  ; 
The  maid  I  love,  the  man  I  hate. 
And  I  wiD  hunt  the  steps  of  fate, 
To  save  or  slay,  as  these  require, 
Through  rendmg  steel,  and  rolling  fire : 
Nor  nm'st  thou  doubt  this  q>eech  from  one 
Who  would  but  do— what  he  hath  done. 
Death  is  but  what  the  haughty  brave, 
The  weak  mnsl  bear,  the  wretch  must  crave ; 


I  Then  let  Life  go  to  him  who  gave : 
'  I  have  not  quful'd  to  danger's  brow 
I      When  high  and  happy — ^need  I  now  ? 


I 


1 T**  Though  Hope  hath  long  withdrawn  her  beam.*'— HS.1 
*  Tliis  superstition  of  a  seocmd  hearing  rfor  I  never  met 
with  downright  second-sight  in  the  East)  fell  once  under  my 
own  obserration.  On  my  third  joumev  to  Cape  Colonna, 
early  in  1811,  as  we  passed  throiuh  the  defile  that  leads  from 
the  hamlet  between  Eeratia  andCMonna,  I  observed  Dervish 
Tahiri  riding  rather  out  of  the  path,  and  leaning  his  head 
oponhifbaiHLasifinpain.  I  rode  up  and  inquired.  *<We 
are  in  peril,**  he  answered.   "  What  peril  t  we  are  not  now 


-  -innBe  m  my 

shot !  ootatophaike  has  been  fired  thiB  morning.**—"  I  hear 
it  notwithstanding—Bom— Bom— as  plainly  as  I  hear  your 


"  I  loved  her.  Friar !  nay,  adored — 

But  these  are  words  that  all  can  i 
I  proved  it  more  in  deed  than  word ; 
There's  blood  upon  that  dinted  sword, 

A  stain  its  steel  can  never  lose : 
'Twas  shed  for  her,  who  died  for  me, 

It  warm'd  the  heart  of  one  abhorr'd : 
Nay,  start  not — ^no — nor  bond  thy  knee. 

Nor  midst  my  sma  such  act  record ; 
Thou  wilt  absolve  me  from  the  deed. 
For  he  was  hostile  to  thy  creed ! 
The  very  name  of  Nazarene 
Was  wormwood  to  his  Paynim  spleen. 
Ungrateful  fool !  since  but  for  brands 
Well  wielded  in  some  hardy  hands. 
And  wounds  by  Galileans  given. 
The  surest  pass  to  Turkish  heaven. 
For  him  his  Houris  still  might  wait 
Impatient  at  the  Prophet's  gate. 
I  loved  her — love  will  find  its  way 
Throng  paths  where  wolves  would  fear  to  prey ; 
And  if  it  dares  enough,  'twere  hard 
If  passion  met  not  some  reward — 
No  matter  how,  or  where,  or  why, 
I  did  not  vainly  seek,  nor  sigh : 
Yet  sometimes,  with  remorse,  m  vain 
I  wish  she  had  not  loved  again. 
She  died — I  dare  not  tell  thee  how ; 
But  look — 'tis  written  on  my  brow ! 
There  read  of  Cain  the  curse  and  crime. 
In  characters  unworn  by  tune : 
Still,  ere  thou  dost  condemn  me,  pause ; 
Not  mine  the  act,  though  I  the  cause. 
Yet  did  he  but  what  I  had  done 
Had  she  been  false  to  more  than  one. 
Faithless  to  him,  he  rave  the  blow ; 
But  true  to  me,  I  laid  him  low : 
Howe'er  deserved  her  doom  might  be, 
Her  treachery  was  truth  to  me ; 
To  me  she  gave  her  heart,  that  all 
Which  tyranny  can  ne'er  inthral ; 
And  I,  alas !  too  late  to  save ! 
Yet  all  I  then  could  give,  I  gave, 
'Twas  some  reUef,  our  foe  a  grave. 
His  death  sits  lightly ;  but  her  fate 
Has  made  me — what  thou  well  mayst  hate 

His  doom  was  seal'd — he  knew  it  well, 
Wam'd  by  the  voice  of  stem  Taheer, 
Deep  m  whose  darMy  bodmg  ear* 
Tlie  deathshot  peal'd  of  muraer  near. 

As  filed  the  troop  to  where  they  fell ! 


voice.**-"  Psha !»»— "  As  you  please,  AITendi ;  if  it  is  written, 
BO  will  it  be.**— I  left  this  quick-eared  predestinarian,  and 
rode  up  to  Basil!,  his  Christian  compatriot,  whose  ears, 
though  not  at  all  prophetic,  by  u  means  relished  the  intel- 
ligence. We  all  arrived  at  Coloiuia.  remained  some  hours, 
and  returned  leisurely,  sajnng  a  vanety  of  brilliant  things,  in 
more  languages  than  spoiled  the  building  of  Babel,  upon 
the  mistaken  seer.  flcMnaic,  Amaout,  Tumsh,  Italian,  and 
English  were  all  exercised,  in  various  conceits,  upon  the 
unfortunate  Mussulman,  while  we  were  contemplwng  the 
beautiful  prospect.  Dervish  was  occupied  about  the  coi  .mns. 
I  thought  he  was  deranged  into  an  antiquarian,  and  4sked 
him  if  he  had  become  a  •*  Palao-ctutro**  man  T  *•  No,  said 
he,  "  but  these  pillars  will  be  useful  in  making  a  stand  :**  and 
added  other  remarks,  which  at  lea^  evincedhis  own  belief 


84 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


He  died  tot*  in  the  battle  broil, 

A  time  that  heeds  nor  pain  nor  toil ; 

One  cry  to  Mahomet  for  aid, 

One  prayer  to  Alia  all  he  made : 

He  kiiew  and  cross'd  me  in  the  fray^- 

I  gazed  upon  him  where  he  lay, 

And  wRtchM  his  spirit  ebb  away : 

*rhouffh  pierced  like  pard  by  hunters'  steel, 

He  felt  not  half  that  now  I  feel. 

I  searched,  but  vainly  search'd,  to  find 

The  workings  of  a  wounded  mind ; 

Each  feature  of  that  sullen  corse 

Betray'd  his  rage,  but  no  remorse. 

Oh,  what  had  vengeance  given  to  trace 

Despair  upon  his  dying  face ! 

The  late  repentance  of  that  hour, 

When  Penitence  hath  lost  her  power 

To  tear  one  terror  from  the  grave. 

And  will  not  soothe,  and  cannot  save. 

«  •  *  •  « 

"  The  cold  in  dime  are  cold  in  Mood, 

Their  love  can  scarce  deserve  the  name ; 
But  mine  was  like  a  lava  flood 

That  boils  m  iEtna's  breast  of  flame 
I  cannot  prate  in  puling  stram 
Of  ladye-love,  and  beauty's  chain : 
If  changing  cheek,  and  scorching  vein,* 
Dps  taught  to  writhe,  but  not  complain. 
If  bursting  heart,  and  maddening  brain, 
And  daring  deed,  and  vengeful  steel, 
And  all  that  I  have  felt  and  feel, 
Betoken  love — ^that  love  was  mine, 
And  shown  by  many  a  bitter  sign. 
*Tis  true,  I  could  not  whine  nor  sigh, 
I  knew  but  to  obtain  or  die. 
I  die — but  first  I  have  possess'd. 
And  come  what  may,  I  have  been  bless'd. 
Shall  I  the  doom  1  sought  upbraid  7 
No-— reft  of  all,  yet  nndiamay'd' 


in  his  troublesome  faculty  o( fore-hearing.  On  our  return  to 
Athens  we  heard  from  Leon6  (a  prisoner  set  ashore  some 
days  after)  of  the  intended  attack  of  the  Mainotes,  mention- 
ed, with  the  cause  of  its  not  taking  place,  in  the  notes  to 
Childe  Harold,  Canto  2d.  I  was  at  some  pains  to  question 
the  man,  and  he  described  the  dresses,  arms,  and  marks  of 
the  horsr  8  of  our  party  so  accurately,  that,  with  other  dr- 
cumstanoes,  we  could  not  doubt  of  hi*  baring  been  in  **  vil- 
lanous  company,"  and  ourselves  in  a  bad  neighborhood. 
Dervish  became  a  soothsayer  for  life,  and  I  dare  say  is  now 
hearing  more  musketry  than  ever  will  be  fired,  to  the  great 
refreshment  of  the  Amaouts  of  Berat,  and  his  native  moun- 
Uiins.— I  shall  mention  one  trait  more  of  this  singular  race. 
In  March,  1811.  a  remarkably  stout  and  active  Amaoutcame 
(I  believe  the  fiftieth  on  the  same  errand)  to  ofier  himself  as 
an  attendant,  which  was  declined :  **  Well,  Afifendi,**  quoth 
he,  **  may  y  >u  live  '.—you  would  have  found  me  useful.  I 
sha.'l  leave  the  town  for  the  hills  to-morrow :  in  the  winter  I 
retum,  pe/haps  you  will  then  receive  me.*'— Dervish,  who 
was  present,  remarked  as  a  thing  of  course,  and  of  no  con- 
sequi^nce,  **  in  the  mean  time  he  will  join  the  Klephtes,** 
(robbers,)  which  was  true  to  the  letter.  If  not  cut  off,  they 
come  down  in  the  winter,  and  pass  it  unmolested  in  some 
town,  where  they  are  often  as  well  known  as  their  exploits. 


>  [*'  I  cannot  prate  in  puling  strain 

Of  bursting  heart  and  maddening  brain. 
And  fire  that  raged  in  every  vein.**— MS.] 
I  ["  Even  now  alone,  yet  undismay'd,— 

I  know  no  friend  and  ask  no  aid.**— MS.] 
*  rThese,  in  our  opinion,  are  the  most  beantlAil  passages 
of  the  poem ;  and  some  of  them  of  a  beauty  which  it  would 
not  be  easy  to  eclipse  by  many  citations  in  the  language.— 
JsrrRBT.] 

« [The  hundred  and  twenty-six  lines  which  follow,  down 
to  **  Tell  me  no  more  of  fancy's  gleam,"  first  appeared  in  the 
Aftn  edition.    In  retoming  the  proof  to  Mr.  Murray,  Lord 


But  for  the  thought  of  Leila  slain, 
Give  me  the  pleasure  with  the  pain, 
So  would  I  live  and  love  again. 
I  grieve,  but  not,  my  holy  guide ! 
For  him  who  dies,  but  her  who  died 
She  sleeps  beneath  the  wandering  i 
Ah !  had  slie  but  an  earthly  grave. 
This  breaking  heart  and  throbbing  head 
Should  seek  and  share  her  narrow  bed.' 
She  was  a  form  of  life  and  light, 
That,  seen,  became  a  part  of  sight ; 
And  rose,  where'er  I  tumM  mine  eye, 
The  Morning-star  of  IVIemory ! 

"  Yes,  Love  indeed  is  light  from  heaven  f 

A  spark  of  that  immortel  fire 
With  angels  shared,  by  Alia  given* 

To  Ufl  from  earth  our  low  desire.* 
Devotion  wafts  the  mind  above, 
But  Heaven  itself  descends  in  love ; 
A  feeling  from  the  Grodhead  cau^t, 
To  wean  from  self  each  sordid  thought ; 
A  Ray  of  him  who  form'd  the  whole  ; 
A  Glory  circling  round  the  soul ! 
I  grant  my  love  imperfect,  all 
That  mortals  by  the  name  miscall ; 
Then  deem  it  evil,  what  thou  wilt ; 
But  say,  oh  say,  hers  was  not  guilt! 
She  was  my  life's  unerring  Ught : 
That  quench*d,  what  beam  shall  break  my  night  Y* 
Oh !  would  it  shone  to  lead  me  still, 
Although  to  death  or  deadliest  ill ! 
Why  marvel  ye,  if  they  who  lose 

Tiiis  present  joy,  this  future  hope, 

No  more  with  sorrow  meekly  cope ; 
In  phrensy  then  their  fate  accuse : 
In  madness  do  those  fearful  deeds 

Tliat  seem  to  add  but  guilt  to  wo? 
Alas !  the  breast  that  inly  bleeds 

Hath  naught  to  dread  from  outward  blow ; 


Byron  says :— **  I  have,  but  with  some  difficulty,  not  added 
any  more  to  this  snake  of  a  poem,  which  has  been  length«i 
ing  its  rattiles  every  month.  It  is  now  fearfully  long,  being 
more  than  a  canto  and  a  half  of  Childe  Harold.  The  la»t 
lines  Hodgson  likes.  It  is  not  often  he  does ;  and  when  he 
don*t,  he  tells  me  with  great  energy,  and  I  fret,  and  alter.  I 
have  thrown  them  in  to  soften  the  ferocity  of  our  Infidel ; 
and,  for  a  dying  man,  have  given  him  a  good  deal  to  say  for 
himself.  Do  you  know  anybody  who  can  stop— I  mean, 
potnf— commas,  and  so  forth  ?  for  I  am,  I  hear,  a  sad  hand 
at  your  punctuation.** 

•  [Among  the  Giaour  MSS.  is  the  first  draught  of  this  pas- 
sage, which  we  subfjoin  :— 

**  Yes  )  (  doth  spring  ) 

>  Love  indeed  <  descend      >  from  heaven ; 
If    )  (be bom       > 

!  immortal ) 
eternal     >fire, 
celestial  ) 
To  human  hearts  in  mercy  given, 

To  lift  from  earth  our  low  desire. 
A  feeling  firom  the  Godhead  caught, 

To  wean  from  self  j  JJJ^  f  sordid  thought ; 

Devotion  sends  the  soul  above. 

But  Heaven  itself  descends  to  love. 
Yet  marvel  not^  if  t^ty  who  love 

This  present  joy,4hu  future  hope. 

Which  Uught  them  with  all  ill  to  cope, 
In  madness,  then,  their  fate  accuse— 

In  madness  do  those  fearful  deeds 
ThntsBmm  J  to  add  but  guilt  to  j 
Thatseem    }  but  to  augment  their  |  ^**- 

Alas'the  j  JjJJf  j  that  inly  bleed* 
Has  naught  to  dread  from  outward  foe,*'  Ac., 
e  [<*  Tis  quench*d,  and  I  am  loit  in  night."— MS  1 


THE  GIAOUR. 


89 


Who  falb  from  all  he  knows  of  bUn, 
Cares  little  into  what  abyts. 
Fierce  as  the  gloomy  Tultnre's  now 

To  thee,  ola  man,  my  deeds  appear: 
I  read  abhoirence  on  thy  brow, 

And  this  too  was  I  bom  to  bear ! 
Tis  true,  that,  like  that  bird  of  prey. 
With  havoc  have  I  mark'd  my  way: 
But  this  was  taught  me  by  the  dove. 
To  die — and  know  no  second  love. 
This  lesson  yet  hath  man  to  learn. 
Taught  by  the  thing  he  dares  to  spurn : 
The  bird  that  sings  within  the  brake, 
Hie  swan  that  swims  upon  the  lake. 
One  mate,  and  one  alone,  will  take. 
And  let  the  fool  still  prone  to  range,' 
And  sneer  on  all  who  cannot  change, 
Partake  his  jest  with  boasting  boys ; 
I  envy  not  his  varied  joys, 
But  deem  such  feeble,  heartless  man, 
Leas  than  yon  solitary  swan  ; 
Far,  far  beneath  the  shallow  maid 
He  left  believing  and  betray'd. 
Such  shame  at  least  was  never  min^^ 
Leila !  each  thought  was  only  thine ! 
My  good,  my  guilt,  my  weal,  my  wo. 
My  hope  on  high — my  all  below. 
Earth  holds  no  other  like  to  thee. 
Or,  if  it  doth,  in  vain  for  me : 
For  worlds  I  dare  not  view  the  dame 
Resembling  thee,  yet  not  the  same. 
The  very  crimes  that  mar  my  youth, 
This  bed  of  death— attest  my  truth  ! 
Tis  all  too  late — thou  wert,  thou  art 
The  cheriflh'd  madness  of  my  heart ! 


•*  And  she  was  lost — and  yet  I  breathed. 
But  not  the  breath  of  human  life  : 
A  serpent  round  my  heart  was  wreathed, 
I  And  stung  my  every  thought  to  strife. 

Alike  all  time,  abhorr*d  ail  place, 
'  Shuddering  I  shrunk  from  Nature's  face, 
I  Where  every  hue  that  charmM  before 
I  Tlie  blackness  of  my  bosom  wore. 
The  rest  thou  dost  already  know, 
;  And  all  my  sins,  and  half  my  wo. 
I        But  talk  no  more  of  penitence ; 

Thou  see'st  I  soon  shall  part  from  hence : 
And  if  thy  holy  tale  were  true, 
Tlie  deed  that's  done  canst  thou  undo? 
Think  me  not  thankless — ^but  this  grief 
Looks  not  to  priesthood  for  relief.' 
My  soul's  estate  in  secret  guess  :* 
But  wouldst  thou  pity  more,  say  less. 
When  thou  canst  bid  my  Leila  live, 
Then  will  I  sue  thee  to  forgive ; 
I        Then  plead  my  cause  in  that  hijB^fa  place 
I        Where  purchased  masses  profier  grace. 
Go,  when  the  hunter's  hand  hath  wrung 
From  forest-cave  her  shrieking  young. 


1     ["  And  let  the  li^bt,  inconslwit  fool 

That  sneers  his  coxcomb  ridicale.**— MS.] 

•The  monk*^  arrmoii  ia  omitted.  Itiecmfl  to  hiiTe  had  so 
tl^iTrelfect  upriTi  iht>  patient*  tUni  it  couhJ  have  no  hopes 
irrim  ttip  revW^  li  trm^  Ije  ^itfltclent  to  uay^  that  it  wag  of  a 
«u«tf>rj!3afy  lemsih^  {9*  mvy  be  jKre&ived  from  ihe  inK^rrup- 
Uoa^  arvl  lUMOJrtneas  of  the  | •ill i cat,)  hnd  waa  delivered  m 
tte  onal  totte  of  alt  onhodox  preMJuti. 


And  calm  the  lonely  lioness : 

But  soothe  not-— mock  not  my  distress ! 

'*  In  earlier  days,  and  calmer  hours. 

When  heart  with  heart  delights  to  Uend, 
Where  bloom  my  native  valley's  bowers' 

I  had — Ah  !  have  I  now  ? — a  friend  ! 
To  him  tliis  pledge  I  charge  thee  send. 

Memorial  of  a  youthful  vow ; 
I  would  remind  him  of  my  end  ^ 

Though  souls  absorb'd  like  mine  allow 
Brief  thought  to  distant  friendship's  claim. 
Yet  dear  to  him  my  blighted  name. 
'TIS  strange — he  prophesied  my  doom. 

And  I  have  smiled — I  then  could  smile — 
When  Prudence  would  his  voice  assume. 

And  worn — I  reck'd  not  what — the  while : 
But  now  remembrance  whispers  o'er 
Those  accents  scarcely  mark'd  before. 
Say — that  his  bodings  came  to  pass. 

And  he  will  start  to  hear  their  truth, 

And  wish  his  words  had  not  been  sooth : 
Tell  him,  unheeding  as  I  was, 

Through  many  a  busy  bitter  scene 

Of  all  our  golden  youth  had  been, 
In  pain,  my  niltering  tongue  had  tried 
To  bless  his  memory  ere  1  died ; 
But  Heaven  in  wrath  would  turn  away, 
If  Guilt  should  for  the  guiltless  pray. 
I  do  not  ask  him  not  to  blame, 
Too  gentle  he  to  wound  my  name ; 
And  what  have  I  to  do  with  fame? 
I  do  not  ask  him  not  to  mourn. 
Such  cold  request  might  sound  like  scorn ; 
And  what  than  Aienoihip's  manly  tear 
May  better  grace  a  brother's  bier? 
But  bear  this  ring,  his  own  of  old, 
And  tell  him — what  thou  dost  behoki ! 
The  wither'd  frame,  the  ruin'd  mind, 
The  wrack  by  passion  left  behind, 
A  shrivell'd  scroll,  a  scatter'd  leaf, 
Sear'd  by  the  autumn  blast  of  grief! 

*  •  *  *  • 

'*  Ten  me  no  more  of  fancy's  gleam. 
No,  father,  no,  'twas  not  a  dream ; 
Alas!  the  dreamer  first  must  sleep, 
I  only  watch'd,  and  wish'd  to  weep ; 
But  could  not,  for  my  burning  brow 
Throbb'd  to  the  very  brain  as  now : 
I  wish'd  but  for  a  single  tear, 
As  something  welcome,  new,  and  dear ; 
I  wish'd  it  then,  I  wish  it  still ; 
Despair  is  stronger  than  my  mXL 
Waste  not  thine  orison,  despaii* 
Is  mightier  than  thy  pious  prayer : 
I  womd  not,  if  I  might,  be  blest ; 
I  want  no  paradise,  but  rest 
'Twas  then,  I  tell  thee,  father !  then 
I  saw  her ;  yes,  she  lived  again ; 
And  shining  in  her  white  symar,^ 
As  through  yon  pale  gray  cloud  the  star 


'[, 


*  but  this  grief 


In  truth  is  not  for  thy  relief, 

My  ttate  thy  thought  cnn  neTpt  giieM,*»— M8.1 

*  ["  Where  ri'^*;  tny  native  city's  to  were,  "—MS  j 

*  ["  I  have  no  heart  to  love  him  now^ 

AJid  'tis  hut  l(?  declare  my  end.''— MS.] 

*  [■*  N*y.  kneel  not,  father,  rise—despftir,"  *c*— MS  : 
» ^'  Syojar,"  a  sluroud. 


86 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Which  now  I  gaze  on,  as  on  her, 
Who  look'd  and  looks  far  lovelier ; 
Dimly  I  view  its  trembling  spark ;' 
To-morrow*s  night  shall  he  more  dark ; 
A  ad  1,  before  its  rays  appear, 
That  lifeless  thing  the  living  fear. 
I  wander,  father  T  for  my  soul 
Is  fleeting  towards  the  final  goal. 
I  saw  her,  friar !  and  I  rose 
Forgetful  of  our  former  woes ; 
And  rushing  from  my  couch,  I  dart, 
And  clasp  her  to  my  desperate  heart ; 
I  clasp^what  is  it  that  1  clasp? 
No  breathing  form  within  my  grasp, 
No  heart  that  beats  reply  to  mine. 
Yet,  Leila  !  yet  the  form  is  thme ! 
And  ait  thou,  dearest,  changed  so  mach» 
As  meet  my  eye,  yet  mock  my  touch  ? 
Ah !  were  thy  beauties  e'er  so  cold, 
I  care  not ;  so  my  arms  enfold 
The  all  they  ever  wishM  to  hold. 
Alas !  around  a  shadow  preoi'd, 
They  shrink  upon  my  lonely  breast; 
Yet  still  His  there  !     In  silence  stands. 
And  beckons  with  beseeching  hands ! 
Witli  braided  hair,  and  bright-black  eye— 
I  knew  'twas  false — she  could  not  die ! 
But  he  is  dead !  within  the  dell 
I  saw  him  buried  where  he  fell ; 
He  comes  not,  for  he  cannot  break 
From  earth ;  why  then  ait  thou  awake? 


» ["  Which  now  I  view  with  trembling  spark."— MS.'^ 
s  The  circumstance  to  which  the  above  story  relates  was 
not  very  uncommon  in  Turkey.  A  few  yean  a^  the  wife  of 
Muchtar  Pacha  complained  to  his  father  of  his  ton's  sup- 
posed infidelity ;  he  asked  with  whom,  and  she  hod  the  bar- 
barity to  give  in  a  list  of  the  twelve  handsomest  women  in 
Yanina.  They  were  seized,  fastened  up  in  sacks,  and 
drowned  in  the  lake  the  same  night !  One  of  the  g[unrd8 
who  was  present  informed  me,  that  not  one  of  the  victims 
uttered  a  cry,  or  showed  a  symptom  of  terror  at  so  sudden 
a  "  wrench  from  all  we  know,  from  all  we  love.'*  The  fate 
of  Phrosine,  the  fairest  of  this  sacrifice,  is  the  subject  of 
many  a  Romaic  and  Amaout  ditty.  The  story  in  the  text 
is  one  told  of  a  young  Venetian  many  years  ago,  and  now 
nearly  forgotten.  I  heard  it  by  accident  recited  by  one  of 
the  cofl'ee-house  storytellers  who  abound  in  the  Levant,  and 
siuf  or  recite  their  narratives.  The  additions  and  interpo- 
lations by  the  translator  will  be  easily  distinguished  from 
the  rest,  by  the  want  of  Eastern  imagery ;  and  I  regret  that 
my  memory  has  retained  so  few  fragments  of  the  original. 
For  the  contents  of  some  of  the  notes  I  am  indebted  partly 
to  D'Herbelot,  and  partly  to  that  most  Eastern,  and,  as 
Mr.  Weber  justly  entitles  it,  *'  sublime  tale,"  the  **  Caliph 
Vathek."  I  do  not  know  from  what  source  the  author  of 
that  singular  volume  may  have  drawn  his  materials ;  some 


They  told  me  wfld  waves  roU'd  above 
The  face  I  view,  the  form  I  love ; 
They  told  me — ^"twas  a  hideous  tale ! 
I'd  tell  it,  but  my  tongue  would  fail : 
If  true,  and  from  thine  ocean-cave 
Thou  com'st  to  claim  a  calmer  grave  ; 
Oh  !  pass  thy  dewy  fingers  o'er 
This  brow  that  then  will  bum  do  more ; 
Or  place  them  on  my  hopeless  heart : 
But,  shape  or  shade !  whate'er  thou  art, 
In  mercy  ne'er  again  depart ! 
Or  farther  with  thee  bear  my  soul 
Than  winds  can  waft  or  waters  roll  ? 
«  »  *  •  » 

"  Such  is  my  name,  and  such  my  tale. 
Confessor !  to  thy  secret  ear 
I  breathe  the  soctows  I  bewail. 

And  thank  thee  for  the  generous  tear 
This  glazing  eye  could  never  shed. 
Then  lay  me  with  the  humblest  dead. 
And,  save  the  cross  above  my  head. 
Be  neither  name  nor  emblem  spread. 
By  pryinff  stranger  to  be  read, 
Or  stay  the  passing  pilgrim's  tread."* 

He  pass'd — ^nor  of  bis  name  and  race 
Hath  left  a  token  or  a  trace. 
Save  what  the  father  must  not  say 
Who  shrived  him  on  his  dying  day : 
This  broken  tale  was  all  we  knew* 
Of  her  he  loved,  or  him  he  slew.* 


of  his  incidents  are  to  be  found  in  the  "  Biblioth^que  Orien- 
tale ;"  but  for  correctness  of  costume,  beauty  of  description, 
and  power  of  imagination,  it  far  surpasses  all  European  imi- 
tations ;  and  bears  such  marks  of  originality,  that  toose  who 
have  visited  the  East  will  find  some  difliculty  in  believing 
it  to  be  more  than  a  translation.  As  an  Eastern  tnle,  even 
Rasselas  must  bow  before  it ;  his  **  Happy  Valley"  will  not 
bear  a  comparison  with  the  "  Hall  of  Eblis.'' 

•  [♦*  Nor  whether  most  he  moum*d  none  knew, 

For  her  he  loved,  or  him  he  slew."— MS.  j 

*  rin  this  poem,  which  was  published  after  the  first  two 
cantos  of  uhilde  Harold,  Lord  Byron  began  to  show  his 
powers.  He  had  now  received  encouragement  which  set 
free  his  daring  hands,  and  jrave  his  strokes  their  natural 
force.  Here,  then,  we  first  find  passages  of  a  tone  peculiar 
to  Lord  B3rron ;  but  still  this  appearance  was  not  uniform : 
he  often  returned  to  his  trammels,  and  reminds  us  of  the 
manner  of  some  favorite  predecessor .  among  these,  I  think 
we  sometimes  catch  the  notes  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  But  the 
internal  tempest— the  deep  passion,  sometimes  buried,  and 
sometimes  buudng  from  some  incidental  touch— the  intensity 
of  agonizing  refiection,  which  will  always  distinguish  Lord 
Byron  from  other  writers— now  began  to  display  them- 
selves.—Sia  EesaToic  BaynoBs.] 


Canto  i. 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


87 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS, 


A  TURKISH  TALE." 


**  Hud  we  never  loved  so  Idndlj, 
Had  we  never  loved  so  blindly, 
Never  met  or  never  parted. 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted.** 


TO 

THE  RIGHT  HONORABLE  LORD  HOLLAND, 

THIS  TALE  18  INSCRIBED, 

WITH  EVKRT  8INTIMENT  OP  REGA&D  AND  RB8PKCT, 

ST  BIB  GRATEFULLY  OBUGSD  AND  SINCERE   FRIEND, 

BYRON. 


THE  BRIDE  OP  ABYDOS/ 


CANTO  THE   KIRflT. 


Know  ye  the  land  where  the  cypreas  and  myrtle* 

Are  emblenifl  of  deeds  that  are  done  in  their  clime, 
Where  the  rage  of  the  vulture,  the  love  of  the  turtle, 

Now  melt  into  sorrow,  now  madden  to  crime  ? 
Know  ye  the  land  of  the  cedar  and  vine, 
Where  the  flowers  ever  blossom,  the  beams  ever  shine : 
Where  the  light  wings  of  Zephyr,  oppressed   with 

perfume. 
Wax  faint  o'er  the  gardens  of  601^  in  her  bloom ; 
Where  the  citron  and  olive  are  fairest  of  fruit, 
And  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  never  is  mute : 
Where  the  tints  of  the  earth,  and  the  hues  of  the  sky. 
In  color  though  varied,  in  beauty  may  vie, 
And  the  pnrixe  of  ocean  is  deepest  in  dye ; 
Where  the  virgins  are  soft  as  the  roses  they  twine. 
And  all,  save  the  spirit  of  man,  is  divine  7 
^is  the  clime  of  the  East ;  'tis  the  land  of  the  Sun- 
Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds   as  his  children  have 
done?* 


I  fTbe  '^  Bride  of  Ab^do**'  ww  pnbli-slicrl  la  the  besin- 
niiKi^  r^f  DeccaibeTj  !813,  The  mtiod  of  rtiiuil  t?  which  it 
Wi"  *lT-nrk  off  If  tbuB  stateJ  by  Lord  Byron,  m  a  letter  to 
Mr  I  f 'JTi>ri  — "  Yon  have  bem  good  eiiouju:}!  to  look  at  a 
thjn^  ^f  01]  ae  tfi  MS.-^  TurliiJU  Jtor^r— iind  I  sliould  feel 
griJititk'd  jj  you  wtjtild  do  it  the  same  fmvor  in  I's  probation- 
ar>-  ^uia  of  print tn^.  It  wns  written,  I  rfiuoot  say  for 
anu'eiuctkt,  not  *  obligftrl  bv  bultgcir  anti  reqin  •,  of  friends,' 
tmt  III  .\  sUJi?  of  inmJj  fro^girci^un^tfljirrs  which  oc- 
c«i-4ori^>r  Decur  io  '  uf  roull^Hat  rondure-' 3  it  necessary 
foi  jiut  tfl^ply  mt  mim  to  i3!!^thlaK+  any  ilang,  but  re- 
ality i  vwl  trnder  Ima  not  very  briUiaiii  inspu-ition  it  was 
€K£t^€ifwd.    SetM!  h  tflthflf  to  ific  flriines,  or 

*  A  iiiuuiiiA  iawkata'  ioaJ, 

On  win^  of  winds  to  fly  or  fall  abroad.* 

It  deserres  no  better  than  the  first,  as  the  work  of  a  week, 
and  n  rrfi^j'ed  *  f^Usim  pede  in  ono'  (by  the  by,  the  only  foot 
I  hAtc  ut  uiad  on ;)  and  I  promise  never  to  trouble  you 
uiji4ei  fartj  cantos,  and  a  voyage  between  each.**] 


Oh  !  wild  as  the  accents  of  lovers*  farewell 
Are  the  hearts  which  they  bear,  and  the  tales  which 
they  telL 

II. 

Begirt  with  many  a  gallant  slave, 
Apparell'd  as  becomes  the  brave. 
Awaiting  each  his  lord's  behest 
To  guide  his  steps,  or  guard  his  rest. 
Old  Giaffir  sate  in  his  Divan : 

Deep  thought  was  in  his  aged  eye ; 
And  though  die  face  of  Mussulman 

Not  oft  betrays  to  standers  by 
The  mind  within,  well  skill'd  to  hide 
All  but  imconquerable  pride. 
His  pensive  cheek  and  pondering  brow 
Did  more  than  he  was  wont  avow. 

III. 
"Let   tho   chamber  be  cleared." — ^Tho  train  disap- 
peared— 

"  Now  call  me  the  chief  of  the  Harem  guard.*' 
With  Giaffir  is  none  but  his  only  son. 

And  the  Nubian  awaiting  the  sire's  award. 

'*  Haroun — ^when  all  the  crowd  that  wait 

Are  pass'd  beyond  the  outer  gate, 

(Wo  to  the  head  whose  eye  beheld 

My  child  Zuleika's  face  uuveil'd !) 


>  ['*  Murray  tells  roe  that  Croker  asked  him  why  the  thing 
is  called  the  Bride  of  Abydos  7  It  is  an  awkward  question, 
being  unanswerable :  she  is  not  a  bride ;  only  about  to  be 
one.  I  don*t  wonder  at  his  finding  out  the  Bull;  but  the  de- 
tection is  too  late  to  do  any  good.  I  was  a  great  fool  to 
have  made  it,  and  am  ashamed  of  not  being  an  Irishman." 
—Bynm  Diaryy  Dec.  6,  1813.] 

*  [To  the  Bride  of  Abydos,  Lord  Byron  made  many  addi- 
tions during  its  process  through  the  press,  amounting  to 
alx>ut  two  hundred  Imes ;  and,  as  in  the  case  of  the  Giaour, 
the  passages  so  added  will  be  seen  to  be  some  of  the  most 
splendid  m  the  whole  poem.  These  opening  lines,  which 
are  among  the  new  insertions,  are  supposed  to  have  been 
suggestea  by  a  song  of  Goethe's— 

"  Kennst  du  das  Land  wo  die  citronen  blUhn.'  ] 

*  "  Gtil,"  the  rose. 

*  **  Souls  made  of  fire,  and  children  of  the  Si 

With  whom  revenge  is  virtue."— Youno's 


88 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


Heuce,  lead  my  daughter  from  her  tower ; 
Her  fate  is  fix'd  this  very  hour : 
Yet  not  to  her  repeat  my  thoaght ; 
By  me  alone  be  duty  taught ! 

"  Pacha !  to  hear  is  to  obey." 
No  more  must  slave  to  despot  say — 
Then  to  the  tower  had  ta'en  his  way, 
But  here  young  Selim  silence  brake, 

First  lowly  rendering  reverence  meet ; 
And  downcast  look'd,  and  gently  spake, 

Still  standing  at  the  Pacha*s  feet : 
For  son  of  Moslem  must  expire. 
Ere  dare  to  sit  before  his  sire ! 

"  Father!  for  fear  that  thon  shooldst  chide 
My  sister,  or  her  sable  gnide, 
Know — ^for  the  fault,  if  fault  there  be. 
Was  mine,  then  fall  thy  frowns  on  me— 
So  lovelily  the  morning  shone, 

That—let  the  old  and  weary  sleep— 
I  could  not ;  and  to  view  alone 

The  fairest  scenes  of  land  and  deep. 
With  none  to  listen  and  reply 
To  thoughts  with  which  my  heart  beat  high 
Were  irksome — for  whatever  my  mood. 
In  sooth  I  love  not  solitude  ; 
I  on  Zuleika's  slumber  broke. 

And,  as  thou  knowest  that  for  me 

Soon  turns  the  harem's  grating  key, 
Before  the  guardian  slaves  awoke 
We  to  the  cypress  groves  had  flown. 
And  made  earth,  main,  and  heaven  our  own ! 
There  lin^r'd  we,  beguiled  too  long 
With  Me]noun*s  tale,  or  Sadi's  song ;' 
Till  I,  who  heard  the  deep  tambour* 
Beat  thy  Divan's  approaching  hour. 
To  thee,  and  to  my  duty  true, 
Wam'd  by  the  sound,  to  greet  thee  flew : 
But  there  Zuleika  wanders  yet — 
Nay,  Father,  rage  not — ^nor  forget 
That  none  can  pierce  that  secret  bower 
But  those  who  watch  the  women's  tower  " 

IV. 

"  Son  of  a  slave" — the  Pacha  said — 
**  From  unbelieving  mother  bred. 
Vain  were  a  father's  hope  to  see 
Aught  that  beseems  a  man  in  thee. 
Thou,  when  thine  arm  should  bend  the  bow. 

And  hurl  the  dart,  and  curb  the  steed, 
■    Thou,  Greek  in  soul  if  not  in  creed. 
Must  pore  where  babbling  waters  flow, 
And  watch  unfolding  roses  blow. 
Would  that  yon  orb,  whose  matin  glow 
Thy  listless  eyes  so  much  admire, 
Would  lend  thee  something  of  his  fire  I 
Thou,  who  wouldst  see  this  battlement 
By  Christian  cannon  piecemeal  rent ; 
Nay,  tamely  view  old  Stambol's  wall 
Before  the  dogs  of  Moscow  fall, 
Nor  strike  one  stroke  for  life  and  death 
Against  the  curs  of  Nazareth  ! 
Go— let  thy  less  than  woman's  hayd 
AsBiune  the  distaff— not  the  brand. 


1  Meinoun  and  Leila,  the  Romeo  and  Juliet  of  the  East 
Sadi,  the  moral  poet  ot  Persia. 

s  Turkish  drum,  which  sounds  at  sunrise,  noon,  and  twi- 
ight. 


But,  Haroun ! — to  my  danghter  speed : 
And  harit — of  thine  own  head  take  heed — 
If  thus  Zuleika  oft  takes  wing — 
Thon  seest  yon  bow — it  hath  a  strinff  I" 


No  sound  from  Selim's  hp  was  heard. 

At  least  that  met  old  Giaffir's  ear, 
But  every  frown  and  every  word 
Pierced  keener  than  a  Christian's  sword. 

*<  Son  of  a  slave ! — ^reproach'd  with  fear ! 

Those  gibes  had  cost  another  dear. 
Son  of  a  dave ! — and  who  my  sire?" 

Thus  held  his  thoughts  their  dark  career ; 
And  glances  ev'n  of  more  than  ire 

Fluh  forth,  then  faintly  disappear. 
Old  Giaffir  gazed  upon  his  son 

And  started ;  for  within  his  eye 
He  read  how  much  his  wrath  had  done ; 
He  saw  rebellion  there  begun : 

"  Come  hither,  boy — what,  no  reply? 
I  mark  thee — and  I  know  thee  too ; 
But  there  be  deeds  thou  dar'st  not  do: 
But  if  thy  beard  had  manUer  length. 
And  if  thy  hand  had  skill  and  strength, 
I'd  joy  to  see  thee  break  a  lance, 
Albeit  agamst  my  own  perchance." 

As  sneeringly  these  accents  fell. 
On  Selun's  eye  he  fiercely  gazed : 

That  eye  retum'd  bun  glance  for  glance 
And  proudly  to  his  sire's  was  raised, 

Till  Giaffir's  quail'd  and  shrunk  askance— 
And  why — he  felt,  but  durst  not  telL 
'*  Much  I  misdoubt  this  wayward  boy 
Will  one  day  work  me  more  annoy : 
I  never  loved  him  from  his  birth, 
And — but  his  arm  is  little  worth. 
And  scarcely  m  the  chase  could  cope 
With  timid  fawn  or  antelope. 
Far  less  would  venture  into  strifo 
Where  man  contends  for  fame  and  life-» 
I  would  not  trust  that  lock  or  tone : 
No— nor  the  blood  so  near  my  own. 
That  blood— he  hath  not  heard — ^no  more- 
I'll  watch  him  closer  than  before. 
He  is  an  Arab*  to  my  sight. 
Or  Christian  crouching  in  the  fight — 
But  hark ! — I  hear  Zuleika's  voice  ; 

like  Houris*  hymn  it  meets  mme  ear : 
She  is  the  offipring  of  my  choice ; 

Oh !  more  than  ev'n  her  mother  dear. 
With  all  to  hope,  and  naught  to  fear — 
My  Peri !  ever  welcome  here ! 
Sweet,  as  the  desert  fountam's  wave. 
To  lips  just  cool'd  m  time  to  save — 

Such  to  my  longing  sight  art  thon ; 
Nor  can  they  waft  to  Mecca's  shrine 
More  thanks  for  life,  than  I  for  thine, 

Who  blest  thy  birth,  and  bless  thee  now." 


■elTOw 


Fair,  as  the  first  that  felTO  womankind,      ' 
When  on  that  dread  yet  lovely  serpent  smiling. 


•  The  Turks  abhor  the  Arabs  (who  return  the  compli- 
ment a  hundred-fold)  even  more  than  they  hate  the  Chiis 


■;-\ 


-v 


'.*    P. 


88  BYRON'S  WORKS.  Gamtd  i* 


Hence,  le 
Her  fate  i 
Yet  not  ti 
By  me  al    • 

"Pacha!  ' 
No  more  i 
Then  to  tl 
But  here  ' 

First  lo 
And  dowi 

Still  sta 
For  son  oi 
Ere  dare 

"Father!  f 
My  sister, 
Know — fo 
Was  mine 
So  lovelily 

That— I 
I  conid  no 

The  fai 
With  non< 
To  though 
Were  irfcs* 
In  sooth  I 
I  on  Zulel 

And,  as 

Soon  tu 
Before  the 
We  to  the 
And  made 
There  ling 
With  Meji 
Till  I,  wh< 
Beat  thy  1 
To  thee,  a 
Wam'd  by 
But  there  I 
Nay,  Fath 
That  none 
But  those  > 


*  Son  of  a  si 
"  From  nn.> 
Vain  were  -*  •  • 
Aught  that 
Thou,whei. 
Andhur; 
.    Thou,  G 
Must  pore 
And  watch* 
Would  thar 
Thy  listless 
Would  lenc 
Thou,  who 
By  Christia 
Nay,  tamel 
Before  the  • 
Nor  strike  c 
Against  the 
Go— let  thy 
Assume  tlie 


>  Meinoon  and  Leila,  the  Rou.' 
Sadi,  the  moral  poet  of  Persia. 


!      s  Turkisli  drum,  which  sounds  at  sunrise,  noon,  andtwi- 
I  light. 


ment  a  hundred-fold)  even  more  than  they  hate  the  Chiii 
nans. 


:u:n::    ...    l.U'i  kin     -.c 


;  ,v  vo.iK 
l.ILRARY 


Canto  i. 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


89 


Whose  image  then  was  stamp'd  upon  her  mind — 
Bat  once  heguiled— and  ever  more  beguiling ; 

Dazzl.ng,  as  that,  oh  !  too  transcendent  vision 
To  Sorrow's  phantom-peopled  slumber  given, 

When  heart  meets  heart  again  in  dreams  Elysian, 
And  painte  the  lost  on  Earth  revived  in  Heaven ; 

Soft,  as  the  memory  of  buried  love ; 

Pare,  aa  the  prayer  which  Childhood  wafts  above ; 

Was  she— the  daughter  of  that  rude  old  Chief, 

Who  met  the  maid  with  tears — but  not  of  griefl 

Who  hath  not  proved  how  feebly  words  essay* 
To  fix  one  spark  of  Beauty's  heavenly  ray  ? 
\Vho  doth  not  feel,  until  his  failing  sight 
Faints  into  dimness  with  its  own  delight. 
His  changing  cheek,  his  sinking  heart  confeas 
The  might — ^the  majesty  of  Lf^reliness  ? 
Such  was  Zuleika— such  around  her  shone 
The  nameless  charms  unmark'd  by  her  alone ; 
The  light  of  love,  the  purity  of  grace, 
The  mind,  the  Music^  breathing  from  her  face,' 
The  heart  whose  softness  harmonized  the  whole— 
And,  oh !  that  eye  was  m  itself  a  Soul ! 

Her  graceful  arras  in  meekness  bending 

Across  her  gently-budding  breast ; 
At  one  kind  word  those  arms  extending 

To  clasp  the  neck  of  him  who  blest 

His  child  caressing  and  caress'd, 

Zuleika  came — ^and  Giaffir  felt 

His  purpose  half  within  him  melt : 

Not  that  against  her  fancied  weal 

His  heart  ttiough  stem  could  ever  feel ; 

Affection  chain'd  her  to  that  heart ; 

Ambition  tore  the  links  apart 

VII. 

"  Zuleika !  child  of  gentleness ! 

How  dear  this  very  day  must  tell, 
When  I  forget  my  own  distress, 


1  [These  twelre  fine  lines  were  added  in  the  course  of 
printing.] 

-  This  expression  has  met  with  objections.  I  will  not  refer 

to  **  Him  wno  hath  not  Music  in  his  soul,"  but  merely  request 

the  reader  to  recollect,  for  ten  seconds,  the  features  of  the 

women  whom  he  believes  to  be  the  most  beautiful :  and,  if 

'    he  then  does  not  comprehend  fully  what  is  feebly  expressed 

•    in  the  above  Ime,  I  shall  be  sorry  for  us  both.    For  an  elo- 

aiicut  passage  in  the  latest  work  of  the  first  female  writer  of 
lis,  perhaps  of  any,  age,  on  the  analogy  (and  the  immedkite 

;  cooipanson  excited  by  that  analogy)  between  **  paintinji^  and 
aiusic,"  see  toI.  iii.  cap.  10,  Ds  l^Allbmaoi«b.  And  is  not 
this  connection  still  stronger  with  the  original  than  the  copy  f 
Mith  Uie  coloring  of  Nature  than  of  Art?  Alter  all,  this  is 
rather  to  be  felt  than  described ;  still  I  think  there  are  some 
who  will  understand  it,  at  least  they  would  have  done  had 

,    the3r  l)eheld  the  countenance  whose  speaking  harmony  sug- 

.    gested  the  idea ;  for  this  passage  is  not  drawn  from  imagina- 

I  tion  but  memory,  that  mirror  which  Affliction  dashes  to  the 
earth,  and  looking  down  upon  the  fragments,  only  beholds  the 
reflection  multiplied  .'—l"  This  morning,  a  very  pretty  billet 

'  from  the  Sta<!l.  She  has  been  pleased  to  be  pleased  with  my 
slight  eulogy  in  the  note  annexed  to  th  3 '  Bride.*    This  is  to 

.  be  accounted  for  in  several  ways  .—firstly,  all  women  like 
all,  or  any  praise ;  secondly,  this  was  unexpected,  because 

j  I  have  never  courted  her ;  and,  thirdly,  as  Scrub  says,  those 
who  have  been  all  their  lives  regularly  praised  by  regular 
cntics,  like  a  little  variety,  and  are  glaa  when  any  one  goes 
out  of  his  way  to  say  a  civil  thing ;  and,  fourthly,  she  is  a 
very  goocl-nal  ■  '  'ir^ ,  ^"t^joii  i*  the  best  reason,  after 
all,  and,  perhf  imii.''—U.  piiiry,  Dec.  7.  1813.] 

•«  [  Among  th4  1 1^  m  risma  f^o  i  naustriously  hunted 

out  in  his  writ  'ui-F  bei*n.  mch  somewnav  more 

[ilausibility  th,i  .  a  !<-lj4  h  cTiar^es, included;  the 

ync  poetLovr-ia.  !■  ri.iviLJt:,  31,  j^uems^  wHiten, "The  melodv 
and  music  of  her  (me"  i>ir  ThomfLs  Browne,  too,  in  his 
Religio  Medici,  eayiT "  There  i'^  m\}Mr,  cviiu  in  beauty.**  The 


I 


In  losing  what  I  love  so  well, 

To  bid  Uiee  with  another  dwell : 

Another !  and  a  braver  man 

Was  never  seen  in  battle's  van. 
We  Moslem  reck  not  much  of  blood ; 

But  yet  the  line  of  Carasman^ 
Unchanged,  unchangeable  hath  stood 

First  of  the  bold  Timariot  bands 
That  won  and  well  can  keep  their  lands. 
Enough  that  he  who  comes  to  woo 
Is  kinsman  of  the  Bey  Oglou : 
His  years  need  scarce  a  £ougfat  employ : 
I  would  not  have  thee  wed  a  boy. 
And  thou  shalt  have  a  noble  dower : 
And  his  and  my  united  power 
Will  laugh  to  scorn  the  death-firman, 
Which  otliers  tremble  but  to  scan, 
And  teach  tlie  measengei'  what  fate 
The  bearer  of  such  boon  may  wait 
And  now  thou  know'st  thy  father's  will ; 

All  that  thy  sex  hath  need  to  kuow : 
Twas  mine  to  teach  obedience  still — 

The  way  to  love,  thy  lord  may  show." 

VIII. 

In  silence  bow'd  the  vu^n's  head ; 

And  if  her  eye  was  filrd  with  tears 
That  stifled  feeling  dare  not  shed. 
And  changed  her  cheek  fh>m  pale  to  red, 

And  red  to  pale,  as  through  her  oars 
Those  winged  words  like  arrows  sped, 

What  could  such  be  but  maiden  fears  ? 
So  bright  the  tear  in  Beauty's  eye. 
Love  half  regrets  to  kiss  it  dry  ; 
So  sweet  the  blush  of  Bashfulness, 
Even  Pity  scarce  can  wish  it  less ! 

Whate'er  it  was  the  sire  forgot ; 
Or  if  remember'd,  mark'd  it  not ; 
Thrice  dapp'd  his  hands,  and  call'd  his  steed," 
Resign'd  his  gem-adom'd  chibouque,^ 


coincidence,  no  doubt^  is  worth  observing,  and  the  task  of 
**  tracking  thus  a  favorite  writer  in  the  snow  (as  Dryden  ex- 
presses it)  of  others,"  is  sometimes  not  unamusing ;  but  to 
those  who  found  upon  such  resemblances  a  general  charge  of 
plagiarism,  we  may  apply  what  Sir  Walter  Sdott  says  :— "  It 
IS  a  favorite  theme  of  laborious  dulness  to  trace  such  coin- 
cidences, because  they  appear  to  reduce  genius  of  the  higher 
order  to  the  usual  standard  of  humanity,  and  of  course  to 
bring  the  author  nearer  to  a  level  with  his  critics.*'  It  is  not 
only  curious,  but  instructive,  to  trace  the  progress  of  this 
passage  to  its  present  state  of  finish.  Having  at  first  written— 

"  Mind  on  her  lip  and  music  in  her  face,*' 
he  afterwards  altered  it  to— 

"  The  mind  of  music  breathing  in  her  face"— 
but  this  not  satisfying  him,  the  next  step  of  correction 
brought  the  line  to  what  it  is  at  present.— Moorb.] 

*  Carasman  Oglou,  or  Kara  Osman  Oglou,  is  the  principal 
landowner  in  Turkey ;  he  governs  Magnesia :  those  who, 
by  a  kind  of  feudal  tenure,  possess  land  on  condition  of  ser- 
vice, are  called  Timariots :  they  serve  as  Spahis,  according 
to  the  extent  of  territory,  and  bring  a  certain  number  into 
the  field,  generally  cavalry. 

s  When  a  Pacha  is  sufficiently  strong  to  resist,  the  slnele  i 
messenger,  who  is  fdways  the  first  bearer  of  the  order  for  iiir  l 
death,  is  strangled  instead,  and  sometimes  five  or  six,  one  I 
after  the  other,  on  the  same  errand,  by  command  of  the  re-   I 
fractory  patient ;  if.  on  the  contrary,  he  is  weak  or  loyal,  he 
bows,  kisses  the  Sultan's  respectable  signature,  and  is  bow- 
strung  with  great  complacency.    In  lolO.  several  of  these 
presents  were  exhibited  in  the  niche  of  tne  Seraglio  gate  ;  i 
among  othersL  the  head  of  the  Pacha  of  Bagdat,  a  brave  young 
man,  cut  off  by  treachery,  after  a  desperate  resistance. 

•  Clapping  of  the  hands  calls  the  servants.  The  Turks  hate   I 
a  superauous  expenditure  of  voice,  and  they  have  no  bells.   | 

1 «« Chibouque,**  the  Turkish  pipe,  of  which  the  amber  I 


12 


(K) 


BYRON'S  WORKS 


Canto  i. 


And  mounting  featly  for  the  mead, 
With  Mau^rrab©©*  and  Mamaluke, 
His  way  aniid  his  Delis  took,* 
To  witness  many  an  active  deed 
With  sabre  keen,  or  blunt  jerreed. 
The  Kisiar  only  and  his  IVloon 
Watch  well  the  Harem's  massy  doon. 

IX. 

His  head  was  leant  upon  his  hand, 

His  eye  Iook*d  o'er  the  dark  blue  water 
That  swiftly  glides  and  gently  swells 
Between  the  winding  Dardanelles ; 
But  yet  he  saw  nor  sea  nor  strand. 
Nor  even  his  Pacha's  turban'd  band 

Mix  in  the  game  of  mimic  daughter, 
Careering  cleave  the  folded  felt' 
With  sabre  stroke  right  sharply  dealt ; 
Nor  mark'd  the  javelin-darting  crowd. 
Nor  hoard  their  Ollahs*  wild  and  loud — 
He  thought  but  of  old  Giaffir's  daughter! 


No  word  from  Selun's  bosom  broke ; 
One  sigh  Zuleika's  thought  bespoke : 
fitill  gazed  he  through  the  lattice  grate, 
Pale,  mute,  and  mournfully  sedute. 
To  him  Zuleika's  eye  was  tuni'd. 
But  little  from  his  aspect  leam'd ; 
Equal  her  grief,  yet  not  the  same ; 
Her  heart  confeas'd  a  gentler  flame : 
But  yet  that  heart,  alarm'd  or  weak. 
She  knew  not  why,  forbade  to  speak. 
Yet  speak  she  must — but  when  essay  ? 
"  How  strange  he  thus  should  turn  away ! 
Not  thus  we  e'er  before  have  met ; 
Not  thus  e^all  be  our  parting  yet" 
Thrice  paced  she  slowly  through  the  room, 

And  watch'd  his  eye — it  still  was  flx'd : 

She  snatch'd  the  urn  wherein  was  mix'd 
The  Persian  Atar-gul'i^  perfume. 
And  sprinkled  all  its  odors  o'er 
The  pictured  roof*  and  marble  floor : 
The  drops,  that  through  his  glittering  vest 
The  playful  giri's  appeal  adcheas'd, 
Unheeded  o'er  his  bosom  flew. 
As  if  that  breast  were  marble  too. 
"  What,  sullen  yet?  it  must  not  be— 
Oh !  gentle  Selhn,  this  from  thee !" 
She  saw  in  curious  order  set 

The  fairest  flowers  of  eastern  land — 
"  He  loved  them  once ;  may  touch  them  yet. 

If  offer'd  by  Zuleika's  hand." 
The  childish  thought  was  hardly  breathed 
Before  the  rose  was  pluck'd  and  wreathed ; 


mouth-piece,  and  sometimes  the  ball  which  contains  the 
leaf,  is  adorned  with  precious  stones,  if  in  possession  of  the 
wealthier  orders. 
1  *'  Maugrabee,"  Moorish  mercenaries. 

s  **  Delis,*'  bravoes  who  form  the  forlorn  hope  of  the  caval- 
ry, and  always  begin  the  action. 

*  A  twisted  fold  of  felt  is  used  for  cimeter  practice  by  the 
Turks,  and  few  but  Mussulman  arms  can  cut  through  it  at  a 
single  stroke :  sometimes  a  tough  turban  is  used  for  the  same 
puipose.  The  jerreed  is  a  game  of  blunt  javelins,  animated 
ana  graceful. 

« "  Ollahs,"  Alia  U  AUah,  the  ''  Leilies,*'  as  the  Spanish 
poets  call  them,  the  sound  is  Ollah ;  a  cry  ojf  which  the  Turks, 
n>r  asilentpeople,  are  somewhat  profuse,  particularly  during 
tke  jerreed,  or  in  the  chase,  but  mostly  in  battle.  Tneir  am- 


The  next  fond  moment  saw  her  seat 
Her  fairy  form  at  Selini's  feet : 
*<  This  rose  to  calm  my  brotiier's  cares 
A  message  from  the  BulbuF  bean ; 
It  says  to-night  he  will  prolong 
For  Selim's  ear  his  sweetest  song ;       « 
And  though  his  note  is  somewhat  sad, 
He'll  try  for  once  a  straki  more  glad. 
With  some  faint  hope  his  alter'd  lay 
May  sing  these  gloomy  thoughts  away. 

XI. 

**  Whai !  not  receive  my  foolish  flower? 

Nay  then  I  am  indeed  unblest : 
On  me  can  thus  thy  forehead  lower? 

And  know'st  thou  not  who  loves  thee  oeet } 
Oh,  Selim  dear !  oh,  more  than  dearest ! 
Say,  is  it  me  thou  hat'st  or  feareet? 
Come,  lay  thy  head  upon  my  breast, 
And  I  will  kiss  thee  into  rest. 
Since  words  of  mine,  and  songs  must  oL, 
Ev'n  from  my  fabled  nightingale. 
I  knew  our  sire  at  times  was  stem. 
But  this  from  thee  had  yet  to  learn : 
Too  well  I  know  he  loves  tliee  not ; 
But  is  Zuleika's  love  forgot  ? 
Ah  !  deem  I  rierht  ?  the  Pacha's  plan — 
This  kinsman  Bey  of  Carasman 
Perhaps  may  prove  some  foe  of  thine : 
If  so,  I  swear  by  Mecca's  shrine. 
If  shrines  that  ne'er  approach  allow 
To  woman's  step  admit  her  vow. 
Without  thy  free  consent,  coimnand, 
The  Sultan  should  not  have  my  hand ! 
Think'st  thou  that  I  could  bear  to  part 
With  thee,  and  learn  to  halve  my  heart? 
Ah  !  were  I  sever*d  from  thy  side. 
Where  were  thy  friend — and  who  my  guide  ? 
Years  have  not  seen.  Time  shall  not  see 
The  hour  that  tears  my  soul  from  thee : 
Even  Azrael,"  from  his  deadly  quiver 

When  fUes  that  shaft,  and  fly  it  must, 
That  parts  all  else,  shall  doom  forever 

Our  hearts  to  undivided  dust !" 

XII. 

He  lived — ^he  breathed — he  moved — he  felt ; 
He  raised  the  maid  from  where  she  knelt ; 
His  trance  was  gone — ^his  keen  eye  shone 
With  thoughts  that  lung  in  darkness  dwelt ; 
With  thoughts  that  bum — in  rays  that  melt 
As  the  stream  late  conccef.  i 

By  the  fringe  of  its  willows, 
When  it  rushes  reveaKd 

In  the  light  of  its  billows ; 


mation  in  the  field,  and  gravity  in  the  chamber,  with  their 
pipes  and  comboloios,  form  an  amusing  contrast. 

•  "  Atar-gul,"  ottar  of  roses.    The  Persian  is  the  finest. 

•  The  ceiling  and  wainscots,  or  rather  walls,  of  the  Mus- 
sulman apartments  are  generally  painted,  in  great  houses, 
with  one  eternal  and  hichly  colorea  viewof  Const imtinople, 
wherein  the  principal  feature  is  a  noble  contempt  of  per- 
spective ;  beiow,  arms,  cimeters.  &c.  are  in  general  fanci- 
fully and  not  inelegantly  disposed. 

f  It  has  been  much  doubted  whctlier  the  notes  of  this 
"  Lover  of  the  rose"  are  sad  or  merry  ;  and  Mr.  Fox's  re- 
marks on  the  subject  have  provoked  some  learned  controversy 
as  to  the  opinions  of  the  ancients  on  the  subject.  I  dare  not 
venture  a  conjecture  on  the  point,  though  a  little  inclined 
to  the  "  errare  mallem."  Ac.  if  Mr.  Fox  was  mistaken. 

•  "  Azrael,"  the  angel  of  death. 


Canto  i. 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


91 


As  the  bolt  bants  on  high 

From  the  black  clood  that  boond  it, 
Flashed  the  hhiI  of  that  eye 

Throagrh  the  long  laahee  round  it 
A  war-hone  at  the  trumpet's  sound, 
A  lion  roused  by  heedless  hound, 
A  tyrant  waked  to  sudden  strife 
X       By  graze  of  ill-directed  knife, 
Stxirts  not  to  more  conyuUive  life 
ThaF  he,  who  heard  that  yow,  displayed, 
And  all,  before  reprew'd,  betray'd : 
"  Now  thou  art  mine,  forever  mine, 
With  life  to  keep,  and  scarce  with  life  resign ; 
Now  thou  art  mine,  that  sacred  oath, 
Though  sworn  by  one,  hath  bound  us  both. ' 
Yes,  fondly,  wisely  hast  thou  doue ; 
That  vow  hath  saved  more  heads  than  one : 
But  blench  not  thou — thy  simplest  tress 
Claims  more  from  me  than  tenderness ; 
I  would  not  wrong  the  slenderest  hair 
That  clusten  round  thy  forehead  fair, 
For  all  the  treasures  buried  far 
Within  the  caves  of  Istakar.* 
This  morning  clouds  upon  me  lowered. 
Reproaches  on  my  head  were  8hower*d, 
And  Giaffir  almost  callM  me  coward ! 
Now  I  have  motive  to  be  brave ; 
The  son  of  his  neglected  slave, 
Nay,  start  not,  'twas  the  term  he  gave, 
May  show,  though  little  apt  to  vaunt, 
A  heart  hb  wonto  nor  deeds  can  daunt 
His  son,  indeed ! — ^yet,  thanks  to  thee. 
Perchance  I  am,  at  least  shall  be ; 
But  let  our  plighted  secret  vow 
Be  only  known  to  us  as  now. 
I  know  the  wretch  who  dares  demand 
From  GiofEr  thy  reluctant  hand ; 
More  ill-got  wealth,  a  meaner  soul 
Holds  not  a  MuaselimV  control : 
Was  he  not  bred  in  EgripoT* 
A  viler  race  let  Israel  show ; 
But  let  that  pass — to  none  bie  told 
Our  oath ;  the  rest  shall  time  unfold. 
To  me  and  mine  leave  Osman  Bey ; 
Fve  partisans  for  peril's  day : 
Think  not  1  am  what  I  appear ; 
I've  arms,  and  friends,  and  vengeance  near." 

xin. 

**  Think  not  thou  art  what  thou  appearest ! 

My  Selim,  thou  art  sadly  changed : 
This  mom  I  saw  thee  gentlest,  dearest ; 

But  now  thou*rt  from  thyself  estranged. 
My  love  thou  surely  knew'st  before. 
It  ne'er  was  less,  nor  can  be  more. 
To  see  thee,  hear  thee,  near  thee  stay, 

And  hate  the  night  I  know  not  why. 
Save  that  we  meet  not  but  by  day ; 

With  thee  to  live,  with  thee  to  die, 

I  dare  not  to  my  hope  deny : 
Thy  cheek,  thine  eyes,  thy  lips  to  kiss, 
like  this — and  this — no  more  than  this ; 
For,  Alia !  sure  thy  lip6  are  flame : 

What  Ufver  in  thy  veins  is  flushing? 


1  The  tireasttres  of  the  Pre-adamite  Saltans.    See  D'Her- 
betot,  article  htakar. 

t  **  Mossehro,**  a  governor,  the  next  in  rank  after  a  Pacha ; 
a  Waywodeis  the  Uiinl;  and  then  come  the  Agas 


My  own  have  nearly  oaufl^t  the  same, 

At  least  I  feel  my  cheek  too  blushing. 
To  soothe  thy  sickness,  watch  thy  heaUh, 
Partake,  but  never  waste  thy  wealth. 
Or  stand  with  smiles  unmurmuring  by. 
And  lighten  half  thy  poverty ; 
Do  all  but  close  thy  dying  eye, 
For  that  I  could  not  live  to  try  ; 
To  these  alone  my  thouglits  aspire : 
More  can  I  do?  or  thou  require? 
But,  Selim,  thou  must  answer  why 
We  need  so  much  of  mystery  ? 
The  cause  I  cannot  dream  nor  tell, 
But  be  it,  since  thou  say'st  'tis  well ; 
Yet  what  thou  mean'st  by  <  arms'  and  *  friends,* 
Beyond  my  weaker  sense  extends. 
I  meant  that  Giaffir  should  have  heard 

The  very  vow  I  plighted  thee  ; 
His  wrath  would  not  revoke  my  word : 

But  surely  he  woukl  leave  me  free. 

Can  this  fond  wish  seem  strange  in  me. 
To  be  what  I  have  ever  been  ? 
What  other  hath  Zuleika  seen 
From  simple  childhood's  earliest  hour? 

What  other  can  she  seek  to  see 
Than  thee,  companion  of  her  bower. 

The  partner  of  her  infancy? 
These  cherish'd  thoughts,  with  life  begun. 

Say,  why  must  I  no  more  avow  ? 
What  change  is  wrought  to  make  me  shun 

The  truth  ;  my  pride,  and  thine  till  now  ? 
To  meet  the  gaze  of  stranger's  eyes 
Our  law,  our  creed,  our  God  denies ; 
Nor  shall  one  wandering  thought  of  mine 
At  such,  our  Prophet's  will,  repine : 
No !  happier  made  by  that  decree  I 
He  left  me  all  in  leaving  thee. 
Deep  were  my  anguish,  thus  compeU'd 
To  wed  with  one  I  ne'er  beheld : 
This  whereforo  should  I  not  reveal? 
Why  wilt  thou  urge  me  to  conceal? 
I  know  the  Pacha^s  haughty  mood 
To  thee  hath  never  boded  good : 
And  he  so  often  storms  at  naught, 
AUah !  forbid  that  e'er  he  ought ! 
And  why  I  know  not,  but  within 
My  heart  concealment  weighs  like  sm. 
If  then  such  secrecy  be  crime, 

And  such  it  feels  while  lurking  here ; 
Oh,  Selim !  tell  me  yet  m  time. 

Nor  leave  me  thus  to  thoughts  of  fear 
Ah !  yonder  see  the  Tchocadar,^ 
My  father  leaves  the  mimic  war ; 
I  tremble  now  to  meet  his  eye — 
Say,  Selim,  canst  thou  tell  me  whyf 

XIV. 

"  Zuleika — to  thy  tower's  retreat 
Betake  thee— Giaffir  I  can  greet : 
And  now  with  him  I  fain  must  prate 
Of  firmans,  impost,  levies,  state. 
There's  fearful  news  from  Danube's  banks, 
Our  Vizier  nobly  tliins  his  ranks. 
For  which  the  Giaour  may  give  hhn  thanks ! 


•  "  Egripo.**  the  NcKTOpont.  According  to  the  proverb, 
the  Turks  of  Egripo,  the  Jews  of  Salonica,  and  the  Oreeks 
on^thens,  are  the  worst  of  their  respectire  races. 

«  "  Tchocadar"— one  of  the  attendants  who  precedes  a 
man  of  authority. 


93 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


Our  Sultan  hath  a  shorter  way 

Such  costly  triumph  to  repay. 

But,  mark  me,  when  the  twilight  drum 

Hath  wam'd  the  troops  to  food  and  sleep. 
Unto  thy  cell  will  Selim  come : 
Then  softly  from  the  Harem  creep 
Where  we  may  wander  by  the  deep: 
Our  garden-battlements  ore  steep ; 
Nor  these  will  rash  intruder  climb 
To  list  our  words,  or  stint  our  time ; 
And  if  he  doth,  I  want  not  steel 
Which  some  have  felt,  and  more  may  feel. 
Then  shalt  thou  learn  of  Selim  more 
Thau  thou  hast  heard  or  thought  before : 
Trust  me,  Zuloika — fear  not  me ! 
Thou  know'st  I  hold  a  harem  key." 

"  Fear  thee,  my  Selim !  ne'er  till  now 
Did  word  like  this—" 

"  Delay  not  thou ; 
I  keep  the  key — and  Haroun's  guard 
Have  9ome,  and  hope  of  more  reword. 
To-night,  Zuleika,  thou  shalt  hear 
My  tide,  my  purpose,  and  my  fear : 
I  am  not,  love  !  what  I  appear." 


THE  BRDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


CANTO  THK  SBOONDu 
I. 

Thb  winds  are  high  on  Helle's  wave. 

As  on  that  night  of  stormy  water 
When  Love,  who  sent,  forgot  to  save 
The  young,  the  beautiful,  the  brave. 

The  lonely  hope  of  Sestos*  daughter. 
Oh !  when  alone  along  the  sky 
Her.  ^rret-torch  was  blazing  high, 
Though  rising  gale,  and  breaking  foam, 
And  shrieking  sea-birds  wam'd  him  home ; 
And  clouds  aloft  and  tides  below. 
With  signs  and  sounds,  forbade  to  go, 
He  could  not  see,  he  would  not  hear, 
Or  sound  or  rign  foreboding  fear ; 
His  eye  but  saw  that  light  of  love, 
The  only  star  it  hail'd  above ; 
His  ear  but  rang  with  Hero's  song, 
"  Ye  waves,  divide  not  lovers  long  !"— 
That  tale  is  old,  but  love  anew 
May  nerve  yonng  hearts  to  prove  as  true. 


1  The  wrangling  about  this  epithet,  *'  the  broad  Helles- 
pont" or  the  •♦^boundless  Hellespont,"  whether  it  means  one 
or  the  other,  or  what  it  means  at  all,  has  been  beyond  all 
poBsibilitv  or  detail.  I  have  even  heard  it  disputed  on  the 
spot ;  ana  not  foreseeing  a  nieedy  conclusion  to  the  con- 
troversy, amused  myself  with  swimming  across  it  in  the 
mean  time ;  and  probably  may  again,  before  the  point  is 
settled.  Indeed,  the  question  as  to  the  truth  of  *'  the  tale 
of  Troy  divine"  still  continues,  much  of  it  resting  upon  the 
tahsm^c  word  **  inupog  :**  probably  Homer  had  the  same 
notion  of  distance  that  a  coauette  has  of  time ;  and  when 
he  talks  of  boundless,  means  half  a  mile ;  as  the  latter,  by  a 
like  figure,  when  she  says  etermU  attachment,  simply  spoci- 
fies  three  weeks. 

*  Before  his  Persian  invasion,  and  crowned  the  altar  with 
laurel,  &c.    He  was  afterwards  imitated  by  Caracalla  in 


IL 

The  winds  are  high,  and  Hello's  tide 
Rolls  darkly  heaving  to  the  main  ; 
And  Night's  descending  shadows  hide 

That  field  virith  blood  bedew'd  in  vain, 
The  desert  of  old  Priam's  pride  ; 
The  tombs,  sole  relics  of  his  reign, 
All— save  immortal  dreams  that  could  beguile 
The  blmd  old  man  of  Scio's  rocky  isle ! 

III. 

Oh  !  yet — ^for  there  my  steps  have  been ; 

These  feet  have  press'd  the  sacreu  shore. 
These  limbs  that  buoyant  wave  hath  borne- 
Minstrel  !  with  thee  to  muse,  to  mourn. 

To  trace  again  those  fields  of  yore. 
Believing  every  hillock  green 

Contains  no  fabled  hero's  ashes, 
And  that  around  the  undoubted  scene 

Thme  own  "  broad  Hellespont"'  still  dashes. 
Bo  long  my  lot !  and  cold  were  he 
Who  there  could  gaze  denyuig  thee ! 

IV. 

The  night  hath  closed  on  Hello's  stream, 

Nor  yet  hath  risen  on  Ida's  hill 
That  moon,  which  shone  on  his  high  theme: 
No  warrior  chides  her  peaceful  beam. 

But  conscious  diepherds  bless  it  still. 
Their  flocks  are  grazing  on  the  mound 

Of  him  who  felt  the  Dardan's  arrow : 
That  mighty  heap  of  gather'd  ground 
Which  Ammon's  son  ran  proudly  round,* 
By  nations  raised,  by  monarchs  crown'd. 

Is  now  a  lone  and  nameless  barrow ! 

Within — thy  dwellmg-place  how  narrow ! 
Without— can  only  strangers  breathe 
The  name  of  him  that  tros  beneath : 
Dust  long  outlasts  the  storied  stone ; 
But  Thou — thy  very  dust  is  gone ! 

V. 
Late,  late  to-night  will  Dian  cheer 
The  swain,  ana  chose  the  boatman's  fear: 
Till  then — ^no  beacon  on  the  clifl^ 
May  shape  the  course  of  struggling  skiff; 
The  scatter'd  lights  that  skirt  the  bay. 
All,  one  by  one,  have  died  away ; 
The  only  lamp  of  this  lone  hour 
Is  glimmering  in  Zuleika's  tower. 

Yes !  there  is  light  in  that  lone  chamber. 

And  o'er  her  silken  Ottoman 
Are  thrown  the  frogmnt  beads  of  amber, 

O'er  which  her  fairy  fingers  ran  ;* 


y 


his  race.  It  is  believed  that  the  last  also  poisoned  a  friend, 
named  Festus,  for  the  sake  of  new  Pa»roclan  games.  I 
have  seen  the  sheep  feeding  on  the  tombs  of  ^Esietcs  and 
Antilochus :  the  first  is  in  the  centre  of  the  plain. 

s  When  ruUwd,  the  amber  is  susceptible  of  a  perfume, 
which  is  slifiht  but  not  disagreeable.  [On  discnverinK  that, 
in  some  of  the  early  copies,  the  all-important  monosyllable 
"nol^had  been  omitted,  Lord  Byron  wrote  to  Mr.  .Mur- 
ray,—" There  is  a  diabolical  mistake  which  must  tf  cor- 
rected ;  it  is  the  omission  of  *  noV  before  disagreeable,  in  the 
note  on  the  amber  rosary.  This  is  really  horrible,  and 
nearly  as  bad  as  the  stumble  of  mine  at  the  thresnokJ— I 
mean  the  mitnomer  of  Bri'le.  Pray  do  not  let  a  c(»py  go 
without  the  '  not  .**  it  is  nonsense,  and  worse  than  noiit^nse. 
I  wish  Uie  printer  was  saddled  with  a  vampire."] 


Canto  ii. 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


L 


Near  these,  with  emerald  raya  beset, 
(How  oould  she  thus  that  gem  forget?) 
Her  mother*8  sainted  amulet,^ 
Whereon  engrayed  the  Koorsee  text, 
Could  smooth  this  life,  and  win  the  next ; 
And  by  her  combdloiti^  lies 
A  Koran  of  illumined  dyes ; 
And  many  a  bright  emUazonM  rhyme 
By  Persian  scribes  redeemed  from  time ; 
And  o*er  those  scrolls,  not  oft  so  mute. 
Reclines  her  now  neglected  lute ; 
And  round  her  lamp  of  fretted  sold 
Bloom  flowers  in  urns  of  China  s  mould ; 
The  richest  work  of  Iran*s  loom, 
And  Sheeraz'  tribute  of  perfume ; 
All  that  can  eye  or  sense  delight 

Are  gathered  in  that  gorgeous  room : 

But  yet  it  hath  an  ait  of  gloom. 
She,  of  this  Peri  cell  the  sprite. 
What  doth  she  hence,  and  on  so  rude  a  night '' 

VL 

Wrapp'd  in  the  darkest  sable  vest, 

Which  none  save  noblest  Moslem  wear. 

To  guard  from  winds  of  heaven  the  breast 
As  heaven  itself  to  Selim  dear. 

With  cautious  steps  the  thicket  threading, 
And  starting  oft,  as  through  the  glade 
The  gust  its  hollow  moanings  mwie, 

Till  on  the  smoother  pathway  treading, 

More  free  her  timid  bosom  beat. 
The  maid  punned  her  silent  guide ; 

And  though  her  terror  urged  retreat, 
How  could  she  quit  her  Selim*s  side  7 
How  teach  her  tender  lips  to  chide  ? 

vn. 

Tliey  reach'd  at  length  a  grotto,  hewn 

By  nature,  but  enlarged  by  art, 
Where  oft  her  lute  she  wont  to  tune, 

And  oft  her  Koran  conn'd  apart ; 
And  oft  in  yonthiul  revery 
She  dream'd  what  Panutiie  might  be : 
Where  woman's  parted  soul  shall  go 
Her  Prophet  had  disdain'd  to  show ; 
But  Selim*8  mansion  was  secure, 
Nor  deem'd  she,  couM  he  long  endure 
His  bower  m  other  worids  of  bliss, 
Without  her,  most  beloved  in  this ! 
Oh !  who  so  dear  with  him  could  dwell  ? 
What  Houri  soothe  hbn  half  so  well? 

VIII. 

Smce  last  Ae  visited  the  spot 

^(ome  change  seem'd  wrouglit  within  the  grot : 

li  might  be  only  that  the  night 

Disguised  things  seen  by  better  light  : 

That  brazen  lamp  but  dimly  threw 

A  ray  of  no  celestial  hue  f 


>  The  behef  in  amulets  engraved  on  gems,  or  enclosed  in 
gold  boxes,  containing  scraps  from  the  Koran,  worn  round 
the  neck,  vrri^  or  arm,  is  still  universal  in  the  East.  The 
Koorsee  cthrciiej  rirfsejn  the  second  cap.  of  the  Koran  de- 
»cnbeB  \hu  ^luwhnics  of  the  Most  High,  and  is  engraved  in 
tlut  taafuker.  ^ihI  wurii  by  the  pious,  as  the  most  esteemed 
MJiMlllifiie  cif  all  aonit-rices. 

^**OMBUik3U)"'-a  Turtish  romry.  The  MSS.,  particu- 
larly tlnw  ot  the  PcTf  urns,  are  richly  adorned  and  illumi- 
Oiti^.  Tlio  Greek  fierrudes  are  kept  in  utter  ignorance; 
biJi  ui^iy  of  th«  l\i/k.i>^  sirls  are  highly  accomplished, 
tbONKii  i>i>i  actuiilljr  i|imliflea  for  a  Christian  coterie.    Per- 


But  in  a  nook  within  the  cell 
Her  eye  on  stranger  objects  fell 
There  arms  were  piled,  not  sueh  as  wield 
The  turban'd  Delis  in  the  field ; 
But  brands  of  foreign  blade  and  hilt, 
And  one  was  red — perchance  with  guilt ! 
Ah !  how  without  can  blood  be  spilt? 
A  cup  too  on  the  board  was  set 
That  did  not  seem  to  hold  sherbet 
What  may  this  mean  7  she  tom'd  to  see 
Her  SeUm— "  Oh !  can  this  be  he?" 

IX. 

His  robe  of  pride  was  thrown  aside. 

His  brow  no  higli-crown'd  turban  bore. 
But  in  its  stead  a  shawl  of  red, 

Wreathed  lightly  round,  his  temples  wore 
That  dagger,  on  whose  hilt  the  gem 
Were  worthy  of  a  diadem. 
No  longer  glittcr'd  at  his  waist. 
Where  pistols  unadom'd  were  braced ; 
And  frt>m  his  belt  a  sabre  swung. 
And  from  his  shoulder  loosely  hung 
The  cloak  of  white,  the  thin  capote 
That  decks  the  wandering  Candiote : 
Beneath — liis  golden  plated  vest 
Clung  like  a  cuiras  to  his  breast ; 
The  greaves  below  his  knee  that  wound 
With  silvery  scales  were  sheathed  and  bound 
But  were  it  not  that  high  command 
Spake  in  his  eye,  and  tone,  and  hand. 
All  that  a  careless  eye  could  see 
In  him  was  some  young  Galiong^e.' 


"  I  said  I  was  not  what  I  seem'd ; 

And  now  thou  see'st  my  words  were  true : 
I  have  a  tale  thou  hast  not  dream'd. 

If  sooth — its  truth  must  others  rue. 
My  story  now  'twere  vain  to  hide, 
I  must  not  see  thee  Osman's  bride : 
But  had  not  thine  own  lips  declared 
How  much  of  that  young  heart  I  shared, 
I  could  not,  must  not,  yet  have  shown 
The  darker  secret  of  my  own. 
In  this  I  speak  not  now  of  love ; 
That,  let  time,  truth,  and  peril  prove : 
But  first — Oh !  never  wed  another — 
Zuleika !  I  am  not  thy  brother !" 

XI. 
"  Oh !  not  my  brother ! — ^yet  unsay — 

GtcnI  !  am  I  left  alone  on  earth 
To  mourn — I  dare  not  cuim— 4he  day* 

That  saw  my  solitary  birth  ? 
Oh !  thou  wilt  love  me  now  no  more ! 

My  sinking  heart  foreboded  ill ; 
But  know  me  all  I  was  before. 


haps  some  of  our  own  "Mhm"  might  not  be  worse  for 

>  "  Oaiiongie**— or  Oalionsi,  a  sailor,  that  is,  a  Turkish 
sailor ;  the  Greeks  navigate,  the  Turks  work  the  guns.  Their 
dress  is  picturesque  ^  and  I  have  seen  the  Capitan  Pacha 
more  than  once  wearmg  it  as  a  kind  of  vKog.  Their  lees^  bow- 
ever,  are  generally  naked.  The  buskins  described  m  the 
text  as  sheathed  behind  with  silver  are  those  of  an  Amaut 
robber,  who  was  my  host  (he  had  quitted  the  profession)  at 
his  Pyrgo,  near  Gastouni  in  the  Morea ;  they  were  plated  in 

les  one  over  the  other,  like  the  back  of  an  armadillo. 

["  To  curse— if  I  could  ciuse— the  day."— MS.J 


94 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  n. 


Hiy  BMtei^— friend— Znleika  itiU. 
Tliou  led'st  me  here  perchance  to  kiO ; 

If  thoa  hast  came  for  vengeance,  tee ! 
My  breast  is  offered— take  thy  fill ! 

Far  better  with  the  dead  to  be 

Than  live  tlius  nothing  now  to  thee: 
Perhaps  far  wone,  for  now  I  know 
Why  Giaffir  always  seem'd  thy  foe ; 
And  I,  alas !  am  Giaffir*8  child, 
For  whom  thou  wert  contemn'd,  roTiled. 
If  not  thy  sister — ^wouldst  thou  saye 
My  life,  oh!  bid  me  be  thy  slave  V* 

XII. 

**  My  riave  Zoleika! — ^nay,  Fro  thine : 

But,  gentle  love,  this  transport  cabr 
Thy  lot  shall  yet  be  linkM  with  mine 
I  swear  it  by  our  Prophet's  shrine. 

And  be  that  thought  thy  sorrow's  balm 
So  may  tlie  Koran*  verse  displayed 
Upon  its  steel  direct  my  blade, 
In  danger's  hour  to  guard  us  both» 
As  I  preserve  that  awftil  oath! 
The  name  m  which  thy  heart  hath  pridec. 

Must  change  ;  but,  my  Zuleika,  know, 
That  tie  is  widened,  not  divided, 

Although  thy  Sire's  my  deadliest  foe. 
My  father  was  to  Giaffir  all 

That  Selim  late  was  deem'd  to  thee ; 
That  brother  wrought  a  brother's  faU, 

But  spared,  at  least,  my  infancy ; 
And  lull'd  me  with  a  vaiu  deceit 
That  yet  a  like  return  may  meet 
He  rear'd  me,  not  with  tender  help. 

But  like  the  nephew  of  a  Cain  f 
He  watch'd  me  like  a  lion's  whelp. 

That  gnaws  and  yet  may  break  hit  chais 

My  father's  blood  in  every  vein 
Is  boiling  ;  but  for  thy  dear  sake 
Nopresent  vengeance  will  I  take ; 

Though  here  I  must  no  more  remain. 
But  first,  beloved  Zuleika !  hear 
How  Griaffir  wrought  this  deed  of  fsar 

xni. 

"  How  first  their  strife  to  rancor  grew 
If  love  or  envy  made  them  foes. 

It  matters  little  if  I  knew ; 

In  fie*v  siHrits,  slights,  though  few 
And  thoughtless,  will  disturb  repose. 

In  war  Abdallah's  arm  was  strong, 

Remember'd  yet  in  Bosniac  song. 


*  The  characterB  on  all  Turkish  cimefers  contain  some- 
tiroes  the  name  of  the  place  of  their  manufacture,  but  more 
generully  a  text  Trom  tne  Komn^  in  letters  of  Rold.  Amongst 
those  in  my  possessitm  is  one  with  a  blade  of  singular  con- 
st rucuon  ;  It  IS  very  broad,  and  the  edge  notched  into  ser- 
iwntine  curves  like  tht»  ripple  of  water,  or  the  wavering  of 
fldme.  I  asked  tlie  Armeman  who  sold  it,  what  possible  use 
such  a  6gure  could  add  ;  he  said,  in  Italian,  that  he  did  not 
know  ;  but  the  Mussulmans  had  an  idea  that  those  of  this 
form  gave  a  severer  wound ;  and  liked  it  because  it  was 
"  piu  fcroce.**  I  did  not  much  admire  the  reason,  but  bought 
it  for  its  pecuharity. 

<  It  IS  to  be  observed,  that  every  allusion  to  any  thing  or 
personage  in  the  Old  Testament,  such  as  the  Ait,  or  Cain, 
IS  eouaiiy  the  privilege  of  Mussulman  and  Jew ;  indeed, 
the  former  profess  to  be  much  better  acquainted  with  the 
lives,  true  and  fiabuloas,  of  the  patriarchs,  than  is  warranted 
by  our  own  sacred  writ ;  and  not  content  vrith  Adam,  they 
have  a  biography  of  Pre- Adamites.  Solomon  is  the  monarch 
of  all  necromancy,  and  Moses  a  prophet  inferior  only  to 
Christ  and  Mahomet    Zuleika  is  the  Persian  name  of  Poti- 


And  Paswan's*  rebel  hordes  attest 

How  little  love  they  bore  socfa  goest 

His  death  is  all  I  need  relate. 

The  stem  efl^t  of  Giaffir's  hate ; 

And  how  my  birth  disclosed  to  me, 

Whate'er  beside  it  makes,  hath  made  me  free 

XIV. 

*'  When  Paswan,  after  years  of  strife. 
At  last  for  power,  but  first  for  life. 
In  Widin's  walls  too  proudly  sate. 
Our  Pachas  rallied  round  the  state ; 
Nor  last  nor  least  in  high  command, 
Ench  brother  led  a  separate  band ; 
They  gave  their  hone-tails*  to  the  wind. 

And  mustering  in  Sophia's  plain 
Tlieb  tents  were  pitch'd,  their  post  assign'd ; 

To  one,  alas !  assign'd  in  vain ! 
What  need  of  words  r  the  deadiv  bowl, 

By  Griaffir's  order  drugg'd  and  given. 
With  venom  subtle  as  his  soul. 

Dismissed  Abdallah's  hence  to  heaven. 
Reclined  and  feverish  in  the  bath, 

He,  when  the  hunter's  sport  was  up. 
But  little  deem'd  a  brother*s  wrath 

To  quench  his  thirst  had  such  a  cup : 
The  bowl  a  bribed  attendant  bore ; 
He  drank  one  draught,*  nor  needed  more ! 
If  thou  my  tale,  Z^oika,  doubt. 
Call  Haroun — he  can  tell  it  out 

XV. 

"  The  deed  once  done,  and  Paswan's  feud 
In  part  suppress'd,  though  ne'er  subdued, 

Abdallah's  Pachalic  was  gain'd : — 
Thou  know'st  not  what  in  our  Divan 
Can  wealth  procure  for  wonw  than  man — 

Abdallah's  bonon  were  obtain'd 
By  him  a  brother's  murder  stain'd ; 
'TIS  true,  the  purchase  neariy  drain'd 
His  ill-got  treasure,  soon  replaced. 
Wouldst  question  whence  7  Survey  the  waite 
And  ask  the  squalid  peasant  how 
His  gains  repay  his  Inoiling  brow ! — 
Why  me  the  stem  usurper  i^>ared. 
Why  thus  with  me  his  palace  shared, 
I  know  not    Shame,  regret,  remorse, 
And  little  fear  from  infant's  force ; 
Besides,  adoption  as  a  son 
By  him  whom  Heaven  accorded  none. 
Or  some  unknown  cabal,  caprice, 
Preserved  me  thus ; — bat  not  m  peace . 


phar*8  wife ;  and  her  amour  with  Joseph  constitutes  one  of 
the  finest  poems  in  their  language.  It  is,  therefore,  no 
violation  of  costume  to  put  the  names  of  Cain,  or  Noah, 
into  the  mouth  of  a  Moslem. — [Some  doubt  having  been  ex- 
pressed by  Mr.  Murray,  as  to  the  propriety  of  puttmg  the 
name  of  Cain  into  the  roomh  of  a  Mussulman,  Lord  Byron 
sent  him  the  preceding  note—"  for  the  benefit  of  the  igno- 
rant." "  I  donH  care  one  lump  of  sugar,"  he  sajrs,  "  for  my 
poetry ;  but  for  my  costume,  and  my  correctness  on  those 
points,  I  will  combat  lustily."] 

>  Paswan  Oglou,  the  rebel  of  Widin ;  who,  for  the  last  years 
of  his  Ufe,  set  the  whole  power  of  the  Porte  at  defiance. 

« *'  Horse-tail,"  the  standard  of  a  Pacha. 

*  Giafilr.  Pacha  of  Argyro  Castro,  or  Scutari,  1  im  i  >>t 
sure  which,  was  actually  taken  off  by  the  Albanian  Ali.  in 
the  manner  described  in  the  text.  Ali  Pacha  timle  I  uas 
in  the  coimtry,  married  the  daughter  of  his  victim,  snme 
years  after  the  event  had  taken  place  at  a  bath  in  Sophia, 
or  Adrianople.  The  poison  was  mixed  in  the  cup  of  coflee, 
which  is  presented  before  the  sherbet  by  the  bath-keeper, 
after  dressmg. 


Canto  ii. 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


95 


He  cannot  cmb  his  hauiorhty  mood, 
Nor  I  forgive  a  father's  Mood. 

XVI 

'*  Within  thy  father's  house  are  foes ; 

Not  all  who  hreak  his  bread  are  true : 
To  these  should  I  my  birth  disclose, 

His  days,  his  very  hours  were  few : 
They  only  want  a  heart  to  lead, 
4  hand  to  point  them  to  the  deed. 
But  Harouu  only  knows,  or  knew 

This  tale,  whose  close  is  almost  nigh : 
He  in  AbdaHah's  palace  grew, 

And  held  that  post  in  his  Serai 

Which  holds  he  here — he  saw  him  die : 
But  what  could  single  slavery  do? 
Avenge  his  lord?  alas !  too  late ; 
Or  save  his  son  from  such  a  fate  ? 
He  chose  the  last,  and  when  elate 

With  foes  subdued,  or  friends  betray'd, 
Proud  Giaffir  in  high  triumph  sate, 
He  led  roe  helpless  to  his  gate. 

And  not  in  vain  it  seems  essay'd 

To  save  the  life  for  which  he  pra/d. 
The  knowledge  of  my  birth  secured 

From  all  and  each,  but  most  from  me ; 
Thus  Giaflir's  safety  was  ensured. 

Removed  he  too  from  Roumelie 
To  this  our  Asiatic  side, 
Far  from  our  seats  by  Danube's  tide. 

With  none  but  Harouu,  who  retains 
Such  knowledge — and  that  Nubian  feels 

A  tyrant's  secrets  are  but  chains, 
From  which  the  captive  gladly  steals, 
And  this  and  more  to  me  reveals: 
Such  still  to  guilt  just  Alia  sends — 
Slaves,  tools,  accomplices — ^no  friends ! 

XVII. 

*'  An  this,  Zuleika,  hanhly  sounds ; 

But  harsher  still  my  tale  must  be : 
However  my  tongue  thy  softness  wounds, 

Yet  I  must  prove  all  truth  to  thee. 

I  saw  thee  start  this  garb  to  see. 
Yet  is  it  one  I  oft  have  worn. 

And  long  must  wear :  this  Galiong^e, 
To  whom  thy  plighted  vow  is  sworn, 

Is  leader  of  those  pirate  hordes, 

Whose  laws  and  lives  are  on  their  swoids ; 
To  hear  whose  desolating  tale 
Would  make  thy  waning  cheek  more  pale : 
l*ho8e  arms  thou  see'st  my  band  have  brought, 
The  hands  that  wield  are  not  remote ; 
This  cop  too  for  the  rugged  knaves 

Is  Bll'd — once  quafT'd,  they  ne'er  repine : 
Our  prophet  might  forgive  the  slaves ; 

TTicy^  only  H^els  in  wine. 

XVIII. 

**  What  could  I  be  7  Proscribed  at  home, 
And  taunted  to  a  wish  to  roam ; 
And  hstlesB  left— for  Giaffir's  fear 
Denied  the  courser  and  the  spear — 


1  The  Torldsh  notions  of  almost  all  islands  are  confined 
to  the  Archipelago,  the  sea  aUuded  to. 

*  Lsinbro  Caiizani,  a  Greek,  famous  for  his  efforts  in  1789- 
00,  for  the  independence  of  his  country.  Abandoned  by  the 
Roasians,  he  became  a  pirate,  and  the  Archipelago  was  the 


Though  oft— Oh,  Mahomet !  how  oft ! — 

In  fuU  Divan  the  despot  scoflTd, 

As  if  my  weak  unwilling  hand 

Refused  the  bridle  or  the  brand: 

He  ever  went  to  war  alone. 

And  pent  me  here  untried — ^unknown ; 

To  Haroun's  care  with  women  left. 

By  hope  unblefls'd,  of  fame  bereft. 

While  thou — ^whose  softness  long  endear'd, 

Though  it  unmann'd  me,  still  had  cheer'd— 

To  Brusa's  walls  for  safety  sent, 

Awaitedst  there  the  field's  event 

Harouu,  who  saw  my  spirit  pining 

Beneath  inaction's  sluggish  yoke. 
His  captive,  though  with  dread  resigning. 

My  thraldom  for  a  season  broke, 
On  promisn  to  return  beforo 
The  day  when  Giaffir's  charge  was  o'w. 
'Tis  vain — my  tongue  cannot  impart 
My  almost  drunkenness  of  heart. 
When  fust  this  liberated  eye 
Surve/d  Earth,  Ocean,  Sun,  and  Sky, 
As  if  my  spirit  pierced  them  through. 
And  all  their  inmost  wonders  knew ! 
One  word  alone  can  paint  to  thee 
That  more  than  feeling — I  was  Free ! 
E'en  for  thy  presence  ceased  to  pine ; 
The  Worl<f— nay.  Heaven  itself  was  mine ! 

XIX. 

'<  Hie  shallop  of  a  trusty  Moor 
Convey'd  me  from  this  idle  shon ; 
I  long'd  to  see  the  isles  that  gem 
Old  Ocean's  purple  diadem : 
I  sought  by  turns,  and  saw  them  all  ;* 

But  when  and  where  I  join'd  the  crew. 
With  whom  I'm  pledged  to  rise  or  fall. 

When  all  that  we  design  to  do 
Is  done,  'twill  then  be  time  more  meet 
To  tell  thee,  when  the  tale's  complete. 

XX. 

**  *Tia  true,  they  are  a  lawless  brood. 
But  rough  in  form,  nor  mild  in  mood ; 
And  every  creed,  and  every  race, 
With  them  hath  found — ^may  find  a  place : 
But  open  speech,  and  ready  hand. 
Obedience  to  their  chief's  command ; 
A  soul  for  every  enterprise. 
That  never  sees  with  terror's  eyes ; 
Friendship  for  each,  and  foith  to  ail. 
And  vengeance  vow'd  for  those  who  fall, 
Have  made  them  fitting  instruments 
For  more  than  ev'n  my  own  intents. 
And  some— and  I  have  studied  all 

Distmguish'd  from  the  vulvar  rank. 
But  chiefly  to  my  council  call 

The  wisdom  of  the  cautious  Frank-^ 
And  some  to  higher  thoughts  aspire. 

The  last  of  LAmbro's*  patriots  there 

Anticipated  freedom  share ; 
And  oft  around  the  cavern  fire 
On  visionary  schemes  debate. 
To  snatch  the  Rayahs?  from  their  fate. 


scene  of  his  enterprises.  He  is  said  to  be  still  alive  at 
Petersburg.  He  and  Riga  are  the  two  most  celebratea  of 
the  Greek  revolotionuts. 

•  "  Rayahs,'*— all  who  pay  the  ciqiitadon  tax,  called  the 
•^Haratch." 


96 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  it. 


So  let  them  ease  their  hoarts  with  prate 
Of  equal  rights,  which  mzui  ne'er  knew ; 
I  have  a  love  for  freedom  toa 
Ay !  let  me  like  the  ocean-Patriarch'  roam, 
Or  only  know  on  laud  the  Tartar's  home  !* 
My  teut  on  shore,  my  galley  on  the  sea, 
Are  more  than  cities  and  Serais  to  me : 
Bonie  by  my  steed,  or  wafted  by  my  sail. 
Across  the  desert,  or  before  the  gale, 
Bound  where  thou  wilt,  my  barb !  or  glide,  my 
But  be  the  star  that  guides  the  wanderer.  Thou! 
Thou,  my  Zuleika,  share  and  bless  my  bark ; 
The  Dove  of  peace  and  promise  to  mine  ark  ? 
Or,  since  that  hope  denied  in  worlds  of  strife, 
Be  thou  the  rambow  to  the  storms  of  life ! 
The  evening  beam  that  smiles  the  clonds  away. 
And  tints  to-morrow  with  prophetic  ray  !^ 
Bleds'd — as  the  Muezzin's  strain  from  Mecca's  wall 
To  pilgrims  pure  and  prostrate  at  his  call ; 
Soft — as  the  melody  of  youthful  days. 
That  steals  the  trembling  tear  of  speechless  praise ; 
Dear — as  his  native  song  to  E2xile*s  ears. 
Shall  sound  each  tone  tliy  long-loved  voice  endeaia. 
For  thee  in  those  bright  isles  is  built  a  bower 
Blooming  as  Aden*  in  its  earliest  hour. 
A  thousand  swords,  with  Selim's  heart  and  hand. 
Wait — ^wave — defend — destroy — at  thy  command ! 
Girt  by  my  band,  Zuleika  at  my  side. 
The  spoil  of  nations  shall  bedeck  my  bride. 
The  Harem's  languid  years  of  listless  ease 
Are  well  resign'd  for  cares — for  joys  like  these : 
Not  blind  to  fate,  I  see,  where'er  I  rove, 
Unuumber'd  perils, — but  one  only  love ! 
Yet  well  my  toils  shall  that  fond  breast  repay. 
Though  fortune  frown,  or  falser  friends  betray. 
How  dear  the  dream  in  darkest  hours  of  ill, 
Should  all  be  changed,  to  find  thee  faithful  still ! 
Be  but  thy  soul,  like  Selim's,  firmly  shown ; 
To  thee  faie  Selim's  tender  as  thme  own ; 
To  soothe  each  sorrow,  share  in  each  delight, 
Blend  every  thought,  do  all — but  disunite ! 
Once  free,  'tis  mine  our  horde  again  to  guide : 
Friends  to  each  other,  foes  to  aught  beside:* 
Yet  there  we  follow  but  the  bent  assign'd 
By  fatal  Nature  to  man's  warring  kind : 
Mark !  where  his  carnage  and  his  conquests  cease ! 
He  makes  a  solitude,  and  calls  it — ^peace ! 


» The  first  of  voyages  is  one  of  the  few  with  which  the 
Mussuknans  profess  much  acquaintance. 

*  The  wandering  life  of  the  Arabs,  Tartars,  and  Turko- 
mans, will  be  found  well  detailed  in  any  book  of  Eastern 
trarels.  That  it  possesses  a  charm  pecuhar  to  itself,  cannot 
be  denied.  A  young  French  renegade  confessed  to  Chateau- 
briand, that  he  never  found  himself  alone,  galloping  in  the 
desert,  without  a  sensation  approaching  to  rapture,  which 
was  indescribable. 

*  rThe  longest,  as  well  as  most  splendid,  of  those  pas- 
sages, with  which  the  perusal  of  his  own  strains,  during  re- 
vision, inspired  him,  mtm  that  rich  flow  of  eloquent  feeling 
which  follows  the  couplet,—**  Thou,  my  Zuleika,  ahare  and 
bless  my  bark,*'  &c.— a  strain  of  poetry,  which,  for  energy 
and  tenderness  of  thought,  for  music  of  versification,  and 
selectness  of  diction^  has,  throughout  the  greater  portion 
of  it,  but  few  rivals  m  either  ancient  or  modem  song.— 
Moors.] 

« r  Originally  written  thus— 

**  And  tints  to-morrow  with  |  ^f^ed  j  "^y" 

rhe  following  note  being  annexed :— **  Mr.  Murray,  choose 
nrhich  of  the  two  epithet^  *  fancied,'  or  *  airy,'  may  be  best ; 
.If  if  neither  will  do,  tell  me,  and  I  will  dream  another.'* 
In  a  subsequent  letter,  he  says :— **  Instead  of— 

And  tints  to-morrow  with  a/neiMl  ray, 


I  like  the  rest  most  use  my  skill  or  strength, 

But  ask  no  land  beyond  my  sabre's  length : 

Power  sways  but  by  division — ^lier  resource 

The  blest  alternative  of  f^ud  or  force ! 

Ours  be  the  last ;  in  time  deceit  may  come 

When  cities  cage  us  m  a  social  home : 

There  ev'n  thy  soul  might  err — ^how  oft  the  heart 

Corruption  shakes  which  peril  could  not  part ! 

And  woman,  more  than  man,  when  dea^  or  wo, 

Or  even  disgrace,  would  lay  hor  lover  low. 

Sunk  in  the  lap  of  luxury  will  shame — 

Away  suspicion ! — not  Zuleika's  name ! 

But  Ufe  is  hazard  at  the  beet ;  and  here 

No  more  remains  to  wm,  and  much  to  fear : 

Yes,  fear ! — the  doubt,  the  dread  of  losing  thee. 

By  Osman's  power,  and  Gioffir's  stem  decree. 

That  dread  shall  vanish  with  the  favoring  gale. 

Which  Love  to-night  hath  promised  to  my  sail : 

No  danger  daunts  the  pair  his  smile  hath  bless'd. 

Their  steps  still  roving,  but  their  hearts  at  rest 

With  thee  all  toils  are  sweet,  each  clime  hath  charms ; 

E^arth — sea  alike — our  worid  within  our  arms ! 

Ay — ^let  the  loud  winds  whistle  o'er  the  deck. 

So  that  those  arms  cling  closer  round  mv  neck : 

The  deepest  murmur  of  this  lip  shall  be^ 

No  sigli  for  safety,  but  a  prayer  for  thee ! 

The  war  of  elements  no  fears  impart 

To  Love,  whose  deadliest  bane  is  human  Art : 

There  lie  the  only  rocks  our  course  can  check : 

Here  moments  menace — there  are  years  of  wreck ! 

But  hence  ye  thoughts  that  rise  in  Horror's  shape ! 

This  hour  bestows,  or  ever  bars  escape. 

Few  words  remain  of  mine  my  tale  to  close : 

Of  thine  but  one  to  waft  us  from  otur  foes ; 

Yea — ^foes — to  me  will  Giaffir's  hate  decline  ? 

And  is  not  Osman,  who  would  part  us,  thine  7 


XXL 

"  His  head  and  faith  from  doubt  and  death 
Retum'd  in  time  my  guard  to  save ; 
Few  heard,  none  told,  that  o'er  the  wave 
From  isle  to  isle  I  roved  the  while : 
And  since,  though  parted  from  my  band, 
Too  seldom  now  I  leave  the  land, 
No  deed  they  Ve  done,  nor  deed  shall  do. 
Ere  I  have  heard  and  doom'd  it  too : 


And  tints  to-morrow  with  prophetie  ray ; 

And  j  ^^  { the  hope  of  morning  with  its  ray ; 


Print— 
Or- 

Or- 

**  And  gilds  to-morrow's  hope  with  heavenly  ray. 

I  wish  you  would  ask  Mr.  Gilford  which  of  them  is  best ; 
or  rather,  not  ieorst.**i 

•  **  Jannat  al  Aden,"  the  perpetual  abode,  the  Mussulman 
paradise. 

•  [**  You  wanted  some  reflections ;  and  I  send  you,  per 
Selm^  eighteen  lines  in  decent  couplets,  of  a  pensive,  if  not 
an  etkicaL  tendency.  One  more  revise— positively  the  last, 
if  decently  done— at  any  rate,  the  pemiltimate.  Mr.  Can- 
ning's approbation.  I  need  not  say.  makes  me  proud.*  To 
make  you  some  amends  for  eternally  pestering  you  with  al- 
terations, I  send  you  Cobbett,— to  connrm  your  orthodoxv.** 
Lord  B.  to  MrMurray."] 

'  (**  Then  if  my  Up  once  murmurs,  it  must  be."— MS.) 

•  [Sir.  Canning's  note  was  as  follows :— **  I  received  the 
books,  and  among  thein,  the  *  Bride  of  Abydos.'  It  is  very, 
very  beautiful.  Lord  Byron  (when  I  met  him,  one  day,  at 
a  dinner  at  Mr.  Ward's)  was  so  ki&d  as  to  promise  to  give 
me  a  copy  of  it.  I  mention  this,  not  to  save  my  purchase, 
but  because  I  should  be  really  flattered  by  the  present."] 


Canto  n. 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


97 


I  fofm  tho  plan,  decree  the  qioOt 
Tifl  fit  I  oftener  share  the  toil 
Bat  now  too  long  Vve  held  thine  ear; 
Time  preesee,  floats  my  bark,  and  here 
We  leave  behind  hot  hate  and  fear 
To-morrow  Osmau  with  his  train 
ArriTee — to-night  must  break  thy  chain: 
And  wooldst  don  save  that  haughty  Bey, 

Perchance,  ki$  life  who  gate  thee  thine, 
With  me,  this  hour  away — away ! 

Bat  yet,  though  thou  art  plighted  mine, 
Wonldrt  thoa  recall  thy  willmg  yow, 
AppallM  by  truths  imparted  now. 
Here  rest  I — not  to  see  thee  wed : 
Bat  be  that  peril  on  ifi3f  head!" 


XXIL 

Znleika,  mute  and  niotx>nleas, 

Stood  like  that  statue  of  dirtress, 

When,  her  last  hope  foreyer  gone, 

The  mother  harden'd  into  stcme ; 

All  m  the  maid  that  eye  could  see 

Was  but  a  younger  Niob& 

But  ere  her  lip,  or  even  her  eye, 

Essay*d  to  speak,  or  look  reply, 

Beneath  the  garden's  wicket  porch 

Far  flashed  on  high  a  blazing  torch ! 

Another — and  am>ther — and  another— 

'*0h!    fly — no  mofe — yet  now  my  more 

brother  r 
Far,  wide,  throu^  every  thicket  spread. 
The  fearfol  lights  are  gleaming  red ; 
Nor  these  alone — for  each  right  hand 
Is  ready  with  a  dieathless  bmnd. 
Tliey  part,  pursue,  return,  and  wheel 
With  searching  flambeau,  shining  steel ; 
And  last  of  all,  his  sabre  waving, 
Stem  Giaffir  m  his  fury  raving  : 
And  now  almost  they  touch  the  cave— 
Oh !  must  that  grot  be  Selim's  grave? 


xxm. 

Dauntless  he  stood — '*  lis  come— 40on  past^- 
One  kiss,  Zuleika — ^'tis  my  last : 

But  yet  m^  band  not  far  fimn  Aon 
May  hear  this  signal,  see  the  flash ; 
Yet  now  too  few — the  attempt  were  rash : 

No  matter — ^yet  one  tthii  more." 
Forth  to  the  cavern  mouth  he  stepp'd ; 

His  pistol's  echo  rang  on  high : 
Znleika  started  not,  nor  wept. 

Despair  benumb'd  her  breast  and  eye ! — 
"  They  hear  me  not,  or  if  they  ply 
Their  oars,  'tis  but  to  see  me  die ; 
That  sound  hath  drawn  my  foes  more  nigh. 
Then  forth  my  fether's  scimitar, 
Thou  ne'er  hast  seen  less  equal  war ! 
Farewell,  Zuleika!— Sweet!  retire: 

Yet  stay  within — here  linger  safe. 

At  thee  his  rage  will  only  chafe. 
Stir  not — lest  even  to  thee  perchance 
Some  erring  blade  or  ball  should  glance. 
Fear'st  thou  for  him?— may  I  ezpbe 
If  in  this  strife  I  seek  thy  nre ! 
No— though  by  him  that  poison  pour'd : 
No — thoitfh  again  he  caH  me  coward ! 
But  tamefy  shall  I  meet  their  steel  7 
No— as  each  crest  save  hii  may  feel !" 


13 


XXIV. 

One  bound  he  made,  and  gam'd  the  sand : 

Ah-eady  at  his  feet  hath  sunk 
Hie  foremost  of  the  prying  baud, 

A  gaspin?  head,  a  quivering  trunk : 
Another  falu— but  round  him  close 
A  swarming  circle  of  his  foes ; 
From  right  to  left  his  path  he  cleft, 

And  almost  met  the  meeting  wave : 
His  boat  appears — not  five  oan*  length — 
His  comrades  strain  with  desperate  strength^ 

Oh !  are  they  yet  in  time  to  save? 
His  feet  the  foremost  breakers  lave ; 
His  band  are  plunging  in  the  bay, 
Their  sabres  glitter  tluough  the  spray ; 
Wet — wild — ^unwearied  to  the  strand 
They  struggle— now  they  touch  the  land ! 
They  come— 'tis  but  to  add  to  slaughter^- 
His  heart's  best  Uood  is  on  the  water. 


XXV. 

Escaped  from  shot,  unharm'd  by  steel. 
Or  scarcely  grazed  its  force  to  feel. 
Had  Selim  won,  betray'd,  beset. 
To  where  the  strand  and  billows  met : 
There  as  his  last  step  left  the  land. 
And  the  last  death-blow  dealt  his  hand — 
Ah !  wherefore  did  he  turn  to  look 

For  her  his  eye  but  sought  in  vain? 
That  pause,  that  fetal  gaze  he  took. 

Hath  doom'd  his  death,  or  fix'd  his  chain. 
Sad  proof,  in  peril  and  in  pain. 
How  late  will  Lover's  hope  remam ! 
His  back  was  to  the  dashing  spray ; 
Behind,  but  close,  his  comrades  lay. 
When,  at  the  instant,  hiss'd  the  ball— 
«  So  may  the  foes  of  Giaffir  fen  !" 
Whose  voice  is  heard?  whoee  carbine  rang? 
Whose  bullet  through  the  night-air  sang. 
Too  nearly,  deadly  aim'd  to  err  ? 
'TIS  thine— Abdallah's  Murderer ! 
The  father  slowly  rued  thy  hate. 
The  son  hath  found  a  quicker  fate  : 
Fast  from  his  breast  the  blood  is  bubblmg, 
Hie  whiteness  of  the  sea-foam  troubling*- 
If  aught  his  lips  essay'd  to  groan. 
The  rushing  ImIIows  choked  the  tone ! 


XXVI. 

Mom  slowly  rolls  the  clouds  away ; 

Few  troi^es  of  the  fight  are  there : 
The  shouts  that  shook  the  midnight-bay 
Are  silent ;  but  some  signs  of  fray 

That  strand  of  strife  may  bear. 
And  fragments  of  each  shiver'd  brand ; 
Steps  stamp'd ;  and  dash'd  mto  the  sand 
llie  print  of  many  a  struggling  hand 

May  there  be  mark'd ;  nor  far  remote 

A  Inoken  torch,  an  earless  boat ; 
And  tanked  on  the  weeds  that  he(4> 
The  beach  where  shelving  to  the  deep 

There  lies  a  white  capote ! 
'TIS  rent  m  twain— one  dark-red  stam 
The  wave  vet  rij^es  o'er  hi  vam : 

But  where  is  he  who  wore? 
Ye !  who  would  o'er  his  relics  weep. 


98 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


€ro,  seek  them  where  the  singes  sweep 
Their  burden  round  Sigienm's  steep 

And  cast  on  Lemnos'  shore : 
The  sea-birds  shriek  above  the  prey, 
O'er  which  their  hun^  beaks  delay, 
As  shaken  on  his  resUess  pillow, 
His  head  heaves  with  the  heaving  billow ; 
That  hand,  whose  motion  is  not  life, 
Yet  feebly  seems  to  menace  strife. 
Flung  by  the  tossing  tide  on  high, 

Then  levelled  with  the  wave — 
What  recks  it,  though  that  corse  shall  lie 

Within  a  living  grave  ? 
The  bird  that  tears  that  prostrate  form 
Hath  only  robb'd  the  meaner  worm ; 
The  only  heart,  the  only  eye 
Had  bled  or  wept  to  see  him  die. 
Had  seen  those  scattered  limbs  composed. 

And  moum'd  above  his  turban  stone,' 
That  heart  hath  burst — ^that  eye  was  closed — 

Yea — closed  before  his  own  I 


XXVII. 

By  Hello's  stream  there  is  a  voice  of  wail ! 
And  woman's  eye  is  wet — ^man's  cheek  is  pale: 
Zuleika !  last  of  Giaffir's  race, 

Thy  destined  lord  is  come  too  late : 
He  sees  not — ^ne'er  shall  see  thy  face ! 

Can  he  not  hear 
The  loud  Wul-wuUeh*  warn  his  distant  ear? 
Thy  handmaids  weeping  at  the  gate. 
The  Koran-chanters  of  the  hymn  of  fate, 
The  silent  slaves  with  folded  arms  that  wait, 
Sighs  in  the  hall,  and  shrieks  upon  the  gale, 

Tell  him  thy  tale ! 
Thou  didst  not  view  thy  Selim  fall ! 
That  fearful  moment  when  he  left  the  cave 
Thy  heart  grew  chill : 
He  was  thy  hope — thy  joy — thy  love — thine  aU — 
And  that  last  thought  on  him  thou  couldst  not  save 
Sufficed  to  kill; 
Bunt  forth  in  one  wUd  cry — and  all  was  still. 
'*.    Peace  to  thy  broken  heart,  and  virgin  grave ! 
Ah  !  happy !  but  of  life  to  lose  the  worst ! 
That  grief— though  deep— though  fatal — was  thy 
first! 

«hrice  happy !  ne'er  to  feel  nor  fear  the  force 
f  absence,  shame,  pride,  hate,  revenge,  remorse ! 

And,  oh !  that  pang  where  more  than  madness  lies ! 

The  worm  that  wiU  not  sleep — and  never  dies ; 

Thought  bf  the  gloomy  day  and  ghastly  night, 

That  dreads  the  darkness,  and  yet  loathes  me  light, 

That  wmds  around,  and  tears  the  quivering  heart! 

Ah !  wherefore  ng^  consume  it — and  depart ! 

Wo  to  thee,  rash  and  unrelenting  chief! 
Vainly  thou  heap'st  the  dust  upon  thy  head, 
Vainly  the  sackcloth  o'er  thy  limbs  dost  spread ; 
By  that  same  hand  Abdallah — Selim  Ued. 


1  ["  While  the  Salsette  layoff  the  Dardanelles,  Lord  By- 
ron saw  the  body  of  a  man  who  had  been  executed  by  being 
CMt  into  the  sea,  floating  on  the  stream  to  and  fro  with  the 
t'embling  of  the  water,  which  gave  to  its  arms  the  effect  of 
scaring  away  several  sea-fowl  that  were  hovering  to  devour. 
This  incident  has  been  strikingly  depicted  **— Galt.} 

*  A  turban  is  carved  in  stone  above  the  graves  of  mtn 
only. 

•  T^  dsitlk-song  of  the  Turkish  women.    The  "silent 


Now  let  it  tear  thy  beard  m  idle  grief: 
Thy  pride  of  heart,  thy  bride  for  Osman's  bed, 
She,  whom  thy  sultan  had  but  seen  to  wed^ 
Thy  Daughter's  dead! 
Hope  of  thine  age,  thy  twilight's  lonely  beam, 
The  Star  hath  set  that  shone  on  Hello's  stream 
What  queneh'd  its  ray  7-r4he  blood  that  thou  hast 

shed! 
Hark !  to  the  hurried  question  of  Despair: 
"Where   is   mv   child?"  —  an   Echr   answers  — 
"  Whore  "' 


XXVIII. 

Within  the  place  of  thousand  tombs 

That  shine  beneath,  while  daric  above 
The  sad  but  living  cypress  glooms. 

And  withers  not,  Uiougfa  branch  and  leaf 
Are  stamp'd  with  an  eternal  grief. 

Like  eariy  unrequited  Love, 
One  spot  exists,  which  ever  blooms, 

Ev'n  in  that  deadly  grove — 
A  single  rose  is  shedding  there 

Its  lonely  lustre,  meek  and  pale : 
It  looks  as  planted  by  Despair — 

So  wliite— so  famt — the  slightest  gale 
Midit  whui  the  leaves  on  high ; 

And  yet,  though  storms  and  blight  assail. 
And  hands  more  rude  than  wintry  sky 

May  wring  it  from  the  stem — in  vain — 

To-morrow  sees  it  bloom  again ! 
The  stalk  some  spirit  gently  rears, 
And  waters  with  celestial  tears ; 

For  well  may  maids  of  Helle  deem 
T^at  this  can  be  no  earthly  flower. 
Which  mocks  the  tempest's  withering  hour, 
And  buds  unshelter'd  by  a  bower ; 
Nor  droops,  though  spring  refuse  her  shower, 

Nor  woos  the  summer  neam : 
To  it  the  lireloug  night  there  sings 

A  bird  unseeiH-but  not  remote : 
Invisible  his  airy  wings. 
But  soft  as  haip  that  Houri  strings 

His  long  entrancing  note ! 
It  were  the  Bulbul ;  but  his  throat. 

Though  mournful,  pours  not  such  a  strain : 
For  they  who  listen  cannot  leave 
The  spot,  but  linger  there  and  gneve. 

As  if  they  IovmI  m  vain ! 
And  yet  so  sweet  the  tears  they  shed, 
'Tis  sorrow  so  unmiz'd  with  dread. 
They  scarce  can  bear  the  mom  to  break 

That  melancholy  spell. 
And  longer  yet  would  weep  and  wake. 

He  sings  so  wild  and  well ! 
But  when  the  day-blush  bunts  from  high 
Expires  that  magic  melody. 
And  «ome  have  been  who  could  believe, 
(So  fondly  youthful  dreams  deceive, 


slaves**  are  the  men,  whose  notions  of  deoonim  totbid  com- 
plaint in  pubUc. 

4  «<  1  came  to  the  place  of  my  birth,  and  cried,  *  The  friends 
of  my  youth,  where  are  they  V  and  an  Echo  answered, 
» Where  are  they  V  "—Fyom  m  Jlrabie  MS,  The  above  quo- 
tation (from  which  the  Idea  in  the  text  is  taken)  must  be 
already  familiar  to  every  reader :  it  is  riven  in  the  first  an- 
notation, p.  07,  of  "  The  Pleasures  of  Memory  :**  a  poem  so 
well  known  as  to  render  a  reference  almost  superfluous ; 
but  to  whose  pages  all  wiL  be  delighted  to  recur 


THE  CORSAIR. 


99 


Yet  hanh  be  they  that  Mamei) 
That  note  bo  piercings  and  profound 
Will  shape  and  syllable'  its  sound 

Into  Zuleika's  name.* 
Tis  from  her  cypress*  summit  heard, 
That  melts  in  air  the  liquid  word : 
*TiB  from  her  lowly  virgin  earth 
That  white  rose  takes  its  tender  birth. 
There  late  was  laid  a  marble  stone ; 
Eve  saw  it  placed — ^the  Morrow  gone ! 
It  was  no  mortal  arm  that  bore 
That  deep  fix'd  pillar  to  the  shore ; 


For  there,  as  Hclle's  legenila  tell, 

Next  mom  'twas  found  wheie  Selim  fell ; 

Lash'd  by  the  tumbling  tide,  whose  wave 

Denied  his  bones  a  holier  grave : 

And  there  by  night,  reclined,  'tis  said, 
Is  seen  a  ghastly  turban'd  head : 
And  hence  extended  by  the  billow, 
'Tis  named  the  "  Pirate-phantom's  piUow  !** 
Where  first  it  lay  that  mourning  flower 
Hath  flourish'd  ;  flourisheth  this  hour, 

Alone  and  dewy,  coldly  pure  and  pale  ; 

As  weeping  Beauty's  cheek  at  Sorrow's  tale !' 


THE  CORSAIR, 


A  TALE.* 


- 1  luoi  peniieri  in  lui  dormir  non  ponno.*' 

Tamo,  GeruMolewmu  lAbermta,  canto  JL 


TO  THOMAS  MOORE,  ESQ. 

Mt  dear  Moorb, — 

I  DEDICATE  to  you  the  last  production  with  which 
I  shall  trespass  on  public  patience,  and  your  indul- 
gence, for  some  years ;  and  I  own  that  I  feel  anxious 
to  avail  myself  of  this  latest  and  only  opportunity 
of  adorning  my  pages  with  a  name,  consecrated  by 
unshaken  public  principle,  and  the  most  undoubted 
and  various  talents.  While  Ireland  ranks  you  among 
the  firmest  of  her  patriots;  while  you  stand  alone 
the  first  of  her  bards  in  her  estimation,  and  Britain 
repeats  and  ratifies  the  decree,  permit  one,  whose 

>  <*  And  airy  tongues  that  syUabU  men's  names." — Milton. 

For  a  belief  that  the  souls  of  the  dead  inhabit  the  form  of 
birds,  we  need  not  travel  to  the  East.  Lord  Lyttleton*8  ghost 
story,  the  belief  of  the  Duchess  of  Kendal,  that  George  I.  flew 
into  her  window  in  the  shape  of  a  raven,  (see  Orford's  Remi- 
niscences,) and  many  other  instances,  bring  this  superstition 
nearer  home.  The  most  singular  was  the  whim  of  a  Wor- 
cester lady,  who,  belierinff  her  daughter  to  exist  in  the  shape 
of  a  singing  bird,  literally  tumishea  her  pew  in  the  cathedral 
with  cages  full  of  the  kind  ;  and  as  she  was  rich,  and  a  bene- 
factress in  beautifying  the  church,  no  objection  was  made  to 
her  harmless  folly.    For  this  anecdote,  see  Orford's  Letters. 

*  [The  heroine  of  this  poem,  the  blooming  Zuleika,  is  all 
punty  and  loveliness.  Never  was  a  faultless  character  more 
delicately  or  more  justly  delineated.  Her  piety,  her  intelli- 
geoce,  her  strict  sense  of  duty,  and  her  undenating  love  of 
troth,  appear  to  have  been  originally  blended  in  her  mind, 
rather  than  inculcated  by  education.  She  is  always  natural, 
always  attractive,  always  affectionate ;  and  it  must  be  ad 
mitted  that  her  affections  are  not  unworthily  bestowed. 
Selim,  while  an  orphan  and  dependent,  is  never  de^aded 
by  cali^mity  ;  when  better  hivpes  are  presented  to  him,  his 
buoyant  TiipmL  nstia  with  his  eipeotations:  he  is  enterprising, 
with  no  moTtf  m^hTiees  tii&ti  becomes  his  youth;  and  when 
dusLppumu-'J  ^Ji  Lhr  Buccc^a  of  H  well-concertod  project,  he 
meet?.  \Miij  trjir- phli^v,,  rhc  fai?  to  which  he  is  exposed 
throii|,']i  hj&  uw  11  ^t  »i^ruus  forbeaiimoe.  To  US,  "  The  Bride 
'f  Ai>vdc«  ■  upptitr^  in  bc^  in  every  respect,  superior  to 

The  UiaoiLT/'  though,  ui  point  of  diction,  it  has  been,  per- 
haps \^  Harmly  mlniXT^fi.  We  will  not  argue  this  point, 
bat  Will  atmp^y  obftervct  thai  what  is  read  with  ease  is  gen- 
erallv  rca^l  with  mpidiiy  ;  arsd  i  lat  many  beauties  of  style 
which  e-4<?^pe  oh^rv^tiuu  ia  tn  eiinple  ana  connected  narrap 
tive,  w^uld  bp  fprced  on  tht  render's  attention  by  abrupt 
and  EJ^rpieiing  tnm^^ttnns.  It  is  only  when  a  traveller  is 
obh^d  tq  jtJip  uo  bis  jcuLraiy,  that  ne  is  disposed  to  ez- 
amine  Asjladimn  Urn  pfx3«pBct.— Gsobob  Ellis.] 


only  regret,  since  our  first  acquaintance,  has  been 
the  yean  he  had  lost  before  it  commenced,  to  add 
the  humble  but  sincere  suf&age  of  friendship,  to 
the  voice  of  more  than  one  nation.  It  will  at  least 
prove  to  you,  that  I  have  neither  forgotten  the 
ratification  derived  from  your  society,  nor  aban- 
doned the  prospect  of  its  renewal,  whenever  your 
leisure  or  inclination  allows  you  to  atone  to  your 
friends  for  too  long  an  absence.  It  is  said  among 
those  friends,  I  trust  truly,  that  you  are  engaged  in 
the  composition  of  a  poem  whose  scene  will  be  laid 
in  the  East ;  none  can  do  those  scenes  so  much  jus- 
tice.   The  wrongs  of  your  own  country,*  the  mag- 

*  r"  The  *  Bride,'  such  as  it  is,  is  my  first  entire  composi- 
tion of  any  length,  (except  the  Satire,  and  be  d— d  to  It,)  for 
the  *  Giaour'  is  out  a  string  of  passages,  and  *  Childe  Harold' 
is,  and  I  rather  think  always  will  be,  unconcluded.  It  was 
published  on  Thursday,  the  2d  of  December ;  but  how  it  is 
liked,  I  know  not.  Whether  it  succeeds  or  not,  is  no  fault 
of  the  public,  against  whom  I  have  no  complaint.  But  I 
am  much  more  indebted  to  the  tale  than  I  can  ever  be  to 

'  the  most  important  reader ;  as  it  wrung  my  thoughts  from 

I  reality  to  imagination ;  from  selfish  regrets  to  vivid  recol- 

lections ;  and  recalled  roe  to  a  countrv  replete  with  the 

brightest  and  darkest,  but  always  most  lively  colors  of  my 

memory."— Byron  Diary,  Dec.  5, 1813.] 

*  ["  The  Corsair*'  was  begun  on  the  1 8th,  and  finished  on 
the  3l8t  of  December,  1813 ;  a  rapidity  of  composition 
which,  taking  into  consideration  the  extraordinary  beauty 
of  the  poem,  is,  perhaps,  unparalleled  in  the  literary  his- 
tory of^the  country.  Lord  Byron  states  it  to  have  been 
written  "  con  omore.^uid  very  much  from  exittenee."  In  the 
original  MS.  the  chief  female  character  was  called  Fnm- 
eeeca,  in  whose  person  the  author  meant  to  delineate  one  of 
bis  acquaintance ;  but,  while  the  work  was  at  press,  he 
changcn  Uie  name  to  Medora,} 

ft  [This  political  allusion  having  been  objected  to  by  a 
friend.  Lord  Byron  sent  a  second  dedication  to  B4r.  Moore, 
with  a  request  that  he  would  **  take  his  choice."  It  ran  as 
follows  :— 

"  Mt  dbab  Moobb,—  January  7th,  1814. 

**  I  had  written  to  you  a  long  letter  of  dedication,  which 
I  suppress,  because,  thouffh  it  contained  something  relating 
to  you,  which  every  one  nad  been  glad  to  hear,  yet  there 
was  too  much  about  politics,  and  poesy,  and  all  things  what- 
soever, ending  with  that  topic  on  which  most  men  are 
fluent,  and  none  very  amusing,— on«'«  self.  It  might  have 
been  rewritten;  but  to  what  purpose!  My  praise  could  add 
nothing  to  your  well-earned  and  firmly  established  fame ; 


(v:/AQ10\ 


100 


BYRON^S  WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


nifieent  and  fisry  spirit  of  Imt  nns,  the  beauty  and 
feeling  of  her  oui^ten,  may  there  be  foond ;  and 
CollioB,  when  he  denominated  hie  Oriental  hif  Irish 
Eclo^es,  was  not  aware  how  tme,  at  least,  was  a 
part  of  his  parallel  Your  imagination  will  create 
a  wdimer  son,  and  less  clouded  sky ;  but  wildness, 
tenderness,  iv  .d  originality,  are  pait  of  your  national 
claim  of  oriental  descent,  to  which  yon  haTO  already 
UiuB  far  proved  3rour  title  more  deariy  than  the  most 
sealous  of  your  country's  antiquarians. 

May  I  add  a  few  words  on  a  subject  on  which  all 
men  are  supposed  to  be  fluent,  and  none  agreeable? 
— Selfl  I  have  written  much,  and  published  more 
than  enough  to  demand  a  longer  sOence  than  I  now 
meditate ;  out,  for  some  years  to  come,  it  is  my  in- 
tentiou  to  tempt  no  further  the  award  of  '*Gods, 
men,  nor  columns."  In  the  present  compoi|Mpi  I 
have  attempted  not  the  roost  difficult,  but,  pemaps, 
the  best  adapted  measure  to  our  languace,  the  good 
old  and  now  neglected  heroic  couplet  The  stanza 
of  Spenser  is  perhaps  too  slow  and  dignified  for 
narrative ;  though,  I  confess,  it  is  the  measure  most 
after  my  own  heart:   Scott  alone,'  of  the  present 

Sfueration,  has  hitherto  completely  triumphed  over 
e  fatal  facility  of  the  octo^llabic  verse ;  and  this 
is  not  the  least  victory  of  his  fertile  and  mighty 
ffenius:  in  blank  verse,  Milton,  Thomson,  and  our 
dramatists,  are  the  beacons  that  shine  along  the 
deep,  but  warn  us  from  the  rough  and  barren  rock 
on  which  they  are  kindled.  The  heroic  couplet  is 
not  the  most  popular  measure  certainly;  but  as  I 
did  not  deviate  into  the  other  from  a  wish  to  flatter 
what  is  called  public  opinion,  I  shall  quit  it  without 
further  apology,  and  take  my  chance  once  moce 
with  that  v^siification,  in  which  I  have  hitherto 
published  nothing  but  oompoations  whose  fenner  cir- 
culation is  part  of  my  present,  and  will  be  of  my 
future,  regret 

With  regard  to  my  story,  and  stories  in  general, 
I  shoukl  have  been  glad  to  have  rendered  my  per- 
sonages more  perfect  and  amiable,  if  posnble,  inas- 
much as  I  have  been  sometimes  criticised,  and  con- 
sidered no  less  reqxmsible  for  their  deeds  and  quali- 
ties than  if  all  had  been  personaL  Be  it  so--4f  I 
have  deviated  int^  th.  ^ooniy  vanity  of  "  di&wing 
from  solt,"  the  pictures  are  probably  like,  since  they 
are  unfavorable  ;  and  if  not,  those  who  know  me  are 
undeceived,  and  those  who  do  not,  I  have  little  in- 
terest in  undeceiving.  I  have  no  particular  desire 
that  any  but  my  acquaintance  shoukl  think  the  author 
better  than  the  bemgs  of  his  imagining ;  but  I  can- 
not help  a  little  surprise,  and  perhaps  amusement,  at 
some  odd  critical  exceptions  in  the  present  instance, 
when  I  see  several  bards  (far  more  deserviuj^,  I  allow) 
m  very  reputable  plight,  and  quite  exempt^  from  all 
participation  in  the  faults  of  those  heroes,  who,  never- 
theless, might  be  found  with  little  more  morality  than 
'*  The  Giaour,"  and  perhaps — but  no — I  must  admit 


and  with  my  most  hearty  admiration  of  your  talents,  and 
delight  in  your  conversation,  you  are  already  acquainted. 
In  availing  myself  of  your  friendly  permission  to  inscribe 
this  poem  to  you,  I  can  only  wish  the  offering  were  as 
wortny  your  acceptance,  as  your  regard  is  dear  to 
**  Tours,  most  affectionately  and  faithftilly, 

*'  Btboh.»*3 

1  [After  the  words  *'8cott  alone,"  Lord  Byron  had  hi- 
serted,  in  a  parenthesis—**  He  will  excuse  the  *  Mr.'— we 
do  not  say  Mr.  Casar.'^ 

«  at  is  diAcult  to  say  whether  we  are  to  reoeivs  this 


Childe  Harold  to  be  a  very  repidiive  persona^ ;  and 
as  to  his  identity,  those  who  like  it  must  give  him 
whatever  "  alias"  they  please.* 

If,  however,  it  were  worth  while  to  remove  the 
unpresBon,  it  might  be  of  some  service  to  me,  that 
the  man  who  is  alike  the  delisfat  of  his  readers  and 
his  friends,  the  poet  of  all  circles,  and  the  idol  of  his 
own,  permits  me  here  and  elsewhere  to  subscribe 
myself, 

Most  truly. 

And  affectionately. 

His  obedient  servant, 

BYRON. 
January  t,  1814. 


THE  CORSAIR/ 


OAMTO  THB  FIRST. 


essun  maggior  dolore, 


Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 
NeUa  miseda, — , "— Damts 


«<  O'er  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark  bhie  sea. 
Our  thoughts  as  boundless,  and  our  souls  as  free. 
Far  as  the  breeze  can  bear,  the  billows  foam. 
Survey  our  empire,  and  behold  oar  home  I 
lliese  are  our  realms,  no  limits  to  their  sway— 
Our  flag  the  sceptre  all  who  meet  obey. 
Oun  the  wiki  life  in  tumult  still  to  range 
From  toil  to  rest,  and  joy  in  every  change. 
Oh,  who  can  tell?  not  thou,  luxurious  slave ! 
Whose  soul  would  sicken  o*er  the  heaving  wave ; 
Not  thou,  vain  lord  of  wantonness  and  ease ! 
Whom  slumber  soothes  not — pleasure  cannot  please— 
Oh,  who  can  tell,  save  he  whose  heart  hath  tried. 
And  danced  in  triumph  o'er  the  waters  wide,  • 
The  exulting:  sense— 4he  pulse's  maddening  play, 
Hiat  thrills  the  wanderer  of  that  trackless  way  7 
Tliat  for  itself  can  woo  the  approaching  fight. 
And  turn  what  some  deem  danger  to  delight ; 
That  seeks  what  cravens  shun  with  more  than  zeali 
And  where  the  feebler  faint — can  only  feel — 
Feel — to  the  rising  bosom's  inmost  core, 
Its  hope  awaken  and  its  spirit  soar? 
No  dread  of  death — if  with  us  die  our  foes — 
Save  that  it  seems  even  duller  than  repose : 
Come  when  it  will — ^we  snatch  the  life  of  life— 
When  loit — what  recks  it — by  disease  or  strife  7 
Let  him  who  crawls  enamor'a  of  decay, 
Cling  to  his  oonch,  and  sicken  yean  away ; 


passage  as  an  admission  or  a  denial  of  the  opinion  to  which 
It  refers ;  but  Lord  Byron  certainly  did  the  public  iiuustioe, 
if  he  supposed  it  imputed  to  him  the  criminal  actions  with 
which  many  of  his  heroes  were  stained.  Men  no  more  ex- 
pected to  meet  in  Lord  Byron  the  Corsair,  who  *'knew  hhn- 
self  a  villain,**  than  they  look  for  the  hypocrisy  of  Kehama 
on  the  shores  of  the  I>erwent  Water,  or  the  profligacy  of 
If  aimion  on  the  banks  of  the  Tweed.— 8»  Waltse  dcott.] 
*  The  time  in  this  poem  may  seem  too  short  for  the  oo- 
eurrences,  but  the  whole  of  the  ^gean  isles  are  within  a 
fisw  hours'  sail  of  the  continent,  and  the  reader  must  be 
kind  enough  to  Uike  the  wM  as  I  have  often  found  it 


Canto  i. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


101 


Heave  bm  thick  braaA,  and  ibake  hia  pakied  head ; 
Oon— the  freeh  turf,  and  not  the  feveiish  bed. 
While  jpigp  by  gasp  he  &lteiB  fprth  hia  soul, 
Gun  with  one  pang—- one  bound— eecapes  control 
Hk  cone  may  boast  its  um  and  narrow  caye, 
And  they  who  loathed  his  life  may  gild  his  graTe: 
Oun  are  the  tears,  though  few,  sincerely  shed, 
\%'hen  Ocean  shronds  and  sepulchres  our  dead. 
For  us,  even  banquets  fond  regret  supply 
In  tlie  red  cup  that  crowns  our  memory ; 
And  the  brief  epitaph  in  danger's  day. 
When  those  who  win  at  len^  divide  the  prey, 
And  cry.  Remembrance  saddening  o'er  each  brow. 
How  had  the  brave  who  fell  exulted  now  /" 

n. 

Such  were  &e  notes  that  from  the  Pirate's  isle, 

Around  the  kindling  watch-fire  rang  the  while : 

Such  were  the  sounds  that  thrill'd  the  rocks  along, 

And  unto  ears  as  rugged  seem'd  a  song ! 

In  scattered  groups  upon  the  golden  sand. 

They  game— carouse— converse— or  whet  the  brand ; 

Select  the  arms — to  each  his  blade  assign. 

And  careless  eye  the  blood  that  dims  its  shine ; 

Repair  the  boat,  replace  the  helm  or  oar. 

While  othera  straggling  muse  along  the  shore ; 

For  the  wild  bird  the  busy  springes  set, 

Or  spread  beneath  the  sun  Uie  dripping  net ; 

Gaze  where  some  distant  sail  a  speck  supplies, 

With  all  the  thirsting  eye  of  Enterprise ; 

Tell  o*er  the  tales  of  many  a  night  of  toil. 

And  marvel  where  they  next  shall  seize  a  spoil : 

No  matter  where — their  chief's  allotment  this ; 

Theirs,  to  believe  no  prey  nor  plan  amiss. 

But  who  that  Cnixr?  his  name  on  every  shore 

Is  famed  and  fear'd — they  ask  and  know  no  more. 

With  these  he  mingles  not  but  to  command  ; 

Few  are  his  words,  but  keen  his  eye  and  hand. 

Ne'er  seasons  he  with  mirth  their  jovial  me«, 

But  they  forgive  his  silence  for  success. 

Ne'er  for  his  hp  the  purpling  cup  they  fill, 

That  goblet  passes  hira  nntasted  still — 

And  for  his  fare — the  rudest  of  his  crew 

Would  that,  in  turn,  have  pass'd  untested  too ; 

Earth's  coarsest  bread,  the  garden's  homeliest  roots. 

And  scarce  the  summer  luxury  of  fruits,  - 

Jiis  short  repast  in  humbleness  supply 

With  all  a  hermit's  tNwrd  would  scarce  deny. 

But  while  he  dmns  the  grosser  joys  of  sense, 

His  mind  seems  nourish'd  by  that  abstinence. 

"  Steer  to  that  shore !"— they  sail    *<  Do  this !"— 'tis 

done. 
**  Now  form  and  follow  me !"— ^e  spoil  is  won. 
Thus  prompt  his  accents  and  his  actions  still. 
And  all  obey  and  few  inquire  his  will ; 
To  such,  brief  answer  and  contemptuous  eye 
Convey  reproof,  nor  further  deign  reply. 

IIL 

i   "  A  sail ! — a  sail !" — a  promised  prize  to  Hope ! 
I    Her  nation — flag — how  speaks  the  telescope  7 
<   No  prize,  alas  !---but  yet  a  welcome  sail : 
i   The  blood-red  signal  glitters  in  the  gale. 
I   Yes — she  is  oura— a  home-returning  barit — 

Blow  fair,  thou  breeze !— she  anchors  ero  the  dark. 

Already  doubled  is  the  cape— our  bay 

ReceivM  that  prow  which  proudly  spurns  the  spray. 
*   How  gloriously  her  gallant  course  she  goes ! 
I   Her  idiite  wings  flying — never  from  her  f 


She  walks  the  waters  like  a  thing  of  life. 
And  seems  to  dare  the  elements  to  strife^ 
Who  would  not  brave  the  battle-fire— the  wreck- 
To  move  the  monarch  of  her  peofded  dedL? 


IV 

Hoane  o'er  her  side  the  rustling  cable  rings ; 

The  sails  are  furl'd ;  and  anchoring  round  she  swings : 

And  gathering  loiterers  on  the  laud  discern 

Her  boat  descending  from  the  latticed  stem. 

'TIS  mann'd — the  oars  keep  concert  to  the  strand. 

Till. grates  her  keel  upon  the  shallow  sand. 

Hail  to  the  welcome  diout ! — the  friendly  speech ! 

When  hand  grasps  hand  uniting  on  the  beach ; 

The  smile,  the  question,  and  the  quick  reply, 

And  the  heart's  promise  of  festivity ! 


The  tidings  spread,  and  gathering  grows  the  crowd . 
The  hum  of  voices,  and  the  laughter  loud. 
And  woman's  gentler  anxious  tone  is  heard — 
Friends' — husbands' — lovers'  names  in  each  dear  word : 
"  Oh !  are  they  safe  ?  we  ask  not  of  success — 
But  shall  we  see  them?  will  their  accents  bless? 
From  where  the  battle  roars — the  billows  chafe— 
They  doubtless  boldly  did — but  who  are  safe? 
Here  let  them  haste  to  gladden  and  surprise, 
And  kiss  the  doubt  from  these  delighted  eyes  I" 

VI. 
«  Where  is  our  chief?  for  him  we  bear  report — 
And  doubt  that  joy — ^which  hails  our  coming — short ; 
Yet  thus  sincere— 'tis  cheering,  though  so  brief ; 
But,  Juan !  instant  gnide  us  to  our  chief: 
Our  greeting  paid,  we'll  feast  on  our  return, 
And  all  shaU  hear  what  each  may  wish  to  leam." 
Ascending  slowly  by  the  rock-hewn  way, 
To  where  his  watch-tower  beetles  o'er  the  bay, 
By  bushy  brake,  and  wild  flowers  blossoming. 
And  freshness  breathing  &om  each  silver  spring. 
Whose  scattefd  streams  from  granite  basins  bi^. 
Leap  into  life,  and  sparkling  woo  your  thint ; 
From  crag  to  cliff  they  mount — ^Near  yonder  cave. 
What  lonely  straggler  looks  along  the  wave  ? 
In  pensive  posture  leaning  on  the  brand. 
Not  oft  a  restmg-staff  to  that  red  hand  7 
"  'Tis  he— 'tis  Conrad — here — as  wont — alone ; 
On — Juan !— on — and  moke  our  purpose  known. 
The  bark  he  views — and  tell  him  we  would  greet 
His  ear  with  tidings  he  must  quickly  meet : 
We  dare  not  yet  approach — thou  know'st  his  mood, 
When  strange  or  uninvited  steps  intrude." 

VII. 

Him  Juan  sought,  and  told  of  their  jicent ; — 

He  spake  not — but  a  sign  express'd  assent^ 

These  Juan  calls — ^they  come— to  their  salute 

He  bends  him  slightly,  but  his  lips  are  mute. 

<<  These  letters,  Chief,  are  from  the  Greek — the  spy, 

Who  still  proclaims  our  spoil  or  peril  nigh : 

Whate'er  his  tidings,  we  can  well  report 

Much  that" — **  Peace,  peace !" — he  cuts  their  prating 

short 
Wondering  they  turn*  abash'd,  while  each  to  each 
Conjecture  whiqiers  in  his  muttering  speech : 
They  watch  his  glance  with  many  a  stealing  look, 
To  gather  how  that  eye  the  tidings  took ; 


102 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  u 


But,  this  as  if  he  gaesB*d,  with  head  aside, 
Perchance  from  some  emotion,  doubt,  or  pride, 
He  read  the  scroll — **  My  tablets,  Juan,  hark — 
Where  is  GonsalvoT 

"  In  the  anchored  bark." 
"  There  let  him  stay — to  him  this  order  bear — 
Back  to  your  duty — ^for  my  course  prepare : 
Myself  this  enterprise  to>night  will  share." 

•'  To-night,  Lord  Conrad?" 

•*  Ay !  at  set  of  sun : 
The  breeze  will  freshen  when  the  day  is  done. 
My  corslet  ^loak — one  hour — and  we  are  gone. 
Sling  on  thy  bugle — see  that  free  from  rust, 
My  carbine-lock  springs  worthy  of  my  trust ;    • 
Be  the  edge  sharpened  of  my  boarding-brand, 
Aud  give  its  guard  more  room  to  fit  my  hand. 
This  let  the  armorer  with  speed  dispose ; 
Last  time,  it  more  fatigued  my  arm  than  foes: 
Mark  that  the  signal-gun  be  duly  fired, 
To  tell  us  when  the  hour  of  stay 's  exj^red." 

VIIL 

They  make  obeisance,  aud  retire  in  haste, 
Too  soon  to  seek  again  the  watery  waste : 
Yet  they  repine  not — so  tliat  Conrad  guides ; 
And  who  dare  question  aught  that  he  decides? 
That  man  of  loneliness  and  mystery. 
Scarce  seen  to  smile,  aud  seldom  heard  to  sigh  ; 
Whose  name  appals  the  fiercest  of  his  crew, 
And  tuits  each  swarthy  cheek  witli  sallower  hue ; 
Still  sways  their  souls  with  that  commanding  art 
That  dazzles,  leads,  yet  chills  the  vulgar  heart 
What  is  that  spell,  that  thus  his  lawless  tram 
Confess  and  envy,  yet  oppose  in  vain  7 
What  should  it  be,  that  thus  their  faith  can  bind  ? 
The  power  of  Thought — ^the  magic  of  the  Mind ! 
Liuk'd  with  success,  assumed  and  kept  with  skill, 
That  moulds  another's  weakness  to  its  will ; 
Wields  with  their  hands,  but,  still  to  these  unknown, 
Makes  ever  ^heir  mightiest  deeds  appear  his  own. 
Such  hath  it  been — shall  be — beneath  the  sun 
The  many  still  must  labor  for  tlie  one ! 
'Tis  Nature's  doom — but  let  the  wretch  who  toils 
Accuse  not,  hate  not  Aim  who  wean  the  spoils. 


1  [In  the  features  of  Conrad,  those  who  have  looked  upon 
Lord  Byron  will  recognise  some  likeness ;  and  the  ascetic 
regimen  which  the  noble  poet  himself  observed,  was  no  less 
marked  m  the  preceding  description  of  Conrad's  fare.  To 
what  are  we  to  ascribe  the  singular  peculiarity  which  in- 
duced an  author  of  such  talent,  siud  so  well  skilled  in  tracing 
the  darker  impressions  which  guilt  and  remorse  leave  on 
the  human  character,  so  frequently  to  affix  features  pecu- 
liar to  himself  to  the  robbers  and  corsairs  which  he  sketched 
with  a  pencil  as  forcible  as  that  of  Salvator  ?  More  than 
one  answer  may  be  returned  to  this  Question  nor  do  we 
pretend  to  say  which  is  best  warranted  by  the  facts  The 
practice  may  arise  from  a  temperament  which  radical  and 
constitutional  melancholy  haa,  as  in  the  case  of  Hamlet, 
predisposed  to  identify  its  owner  with  scenes  of  that  deep 
and  amazing  interest  which  arises  from  the  stings  of  con- 
science contending  with  the  stubborn  energy  of  pride,  and 
delighting  to  be  placed  in  supposed  situations  of  guilt  and 
danger,  as  some  men  love  instinctively  to  tread  the  giddy 
edge  of  a  precipice,  or,  holding  bjr  some  frail  twig,  to  stoop 
forward  over  the  abyss  into  which  the  dark  torrent  dis- 
charges 'tself.  Or,  it  may  be  tliat  these  disguises  were  as- 
sumed capriciously,  as  a  man  might  choose  the  cloak, 
poniard,  and  dark  lantern  of  a  bravo,  for  his  disguise  at  a 
masquerade.  Or,  feeling  his  own  powers  in  painting  the 
sombre  and  the  horrible,  Lord  Byron  assumed  m  his  lervor 
•.he  very  semblance  of  the  characters  he  describes ;  like  an 
*ctor  who  presents  on  the  stage  at  once  his  own  person  and 
the  tragic  character  with  which  for  tlie  time  he  is  invested. 
Nor,  is  it  altogether  incompatible  with  his  character  to  be- 


Oh !  if  he  knew  the  weight  of  splendid  chains, 
How  light  the  balance  of  his  humbler  pauis ! 

IX. 

Unlike  the  heroes  of  each  ancient  race. 

Demons  in  act,  but  Gods  at  least  in  face^ 

In  Courad  s  form  seems  little  to  admire. 

Though  his  dark  eyebrow  shades  a  glance  of  fire 

Robust  but  not  Herculean — to  the  sight 

No  giant  frame  sets  forth  his  common  height ; 

Yet,  in  the  whole,  who  paused  to  look  again. 

Saw  more  than  marks  the  crowd  of  vulgar  men  ^ 

They  gaze  and  marvel  how — and  still  confess 

That  mus  it  is,  but  why  they  caunot  guess. 

Stmbumt  his  cheek,  his  forehead  high  aud  pale 

The  sable  cmrls  iu  wild  profusion  veil ; 

And  oft  perforce  his  rising  Up  reveals 

The  haughtier  thought  it  curbs,  but  scarce  conceals. 

Though  smooth  his  voice,  and  calm  his  general  mien, 

Still  seems  there  something  he  would  not  have  seen : 

His  features*  deepening  lines  and  varying  hue 

At  times  attracted,  yet  perplex*d  the  view. 

As  if  within  that  murkiness  of  mind 

Work'd  feelings  fearful,  and  yet  undefined ; 

Such  might  it  be — that  iioue  could  truly  tell — 

Too  close  inquiry  his  stem  glance  would  quell. 

There  breathe  but  few  whose  aspect  might  defy 

The  full  encoimter  of  his  searching  eye  : 

He  had  the  skill,  when  Cimning's  gaze  would  seek 

To  probe  his  heart  and  watch  his  changing  cheek. 

At  once  the  observer's  purpose  to  espy. 

And  on  himself  roll  back  his  scrutiny. 

Lest  he  to  Courad  rather  should  betray 

Some  secret  thought,  than  drag  that  chief's  to  day. 

There  was  a  lauding  Devil  iu  his  sneer, 

That  raised  emotions  both  of  rage  and  fear ; 

And  where  his  frown  of  hatred  darkly  fell, 

Hope  withering  fled — aud  Mercy  sigh'd  farewell  !* 

X. 

Slight  are  the  outward  signs  of  evil  thought. 
Within — ^within — ^'twas  there  the  spirit  wrought ! 
Love  shows  all  changes :   Hate,  Ambition,  Guile, 
Betray  no  further  than  the  bitter  smile ; 
The  lip*8  least  curi,  the  lightest  paleness  thrown 
Along  the  govem'd  aspect,  speak  alone 


lieve  that,  in  contempt  of  the  criticisms  which,  on  this  ac- 
count, had  attended  **  Childe  Harold,**  he  was  determined 
to  show  to  the  public  how  bttle  he  was  affected  by  them, 
and  how  effectually  it  whs  in  his  power  to  compel  attention 
and  respect,  even  when  imparting  a  portion  of  his  own  like- 
I  ness  and  his  own  peculiarities,  •  oirates  and  outlaws. — Sib 
Waltbb  ScoTT.l 

*  That  Conrad  is  a  character  not  altogether  out  of  nature, 
I  shall  attempt  to  prove  by  some  historical  coincidences 
which  I  have  met  with  since  writing  '*  The  Corsair  :"— 

**  Eccelin,  prisonmer,"  dit  Rolandini,  '*  s'enfermoit  dans 
un  silence  mena^ant ;  il  lixoit  sur  la  terre  son  regard  feroce, 
et  ne  donnoit  point  d'essor  a  sa  profonde  indignation.  De 
toutes  partes  cependant  les  soldats  et  les  peuples  accou- 
roient ;  iU  vouloient  voir  cet  homme,  jadis  si  puissant,  et  U 
joie  universelle  eclatoit  ile  toutes  paries.        4  ♦        * 

*'  Eccelin  itoit  d'une  petite  taiUe  ;  mais  tout  rasoect  de  sa 
personne,  tons  ses  mouvemens,  indiquoient  un  soldat.  Son 
tangage  etoit  amer,  son  d6portement  superbe— et  par  son 
scui  regard,  il  faisoit  trembler  les  plus  hardis."— SwuunKft. 
tome  ill.  p.  219. 

Again,  ♦•  Gisericus,  (Genseric,  king  of  the  Vandals,  the 
conqueror  of  both  Carthage  and  Rome,)  staturft  mediocris, 
et  equi  casu  claudicans,  ammo  profundus,  serinone  rarus, 
luxuria;  contemptor,  irtk  turbidus,  habendi  cupidus,  ad  so- 
licitandas  gentes  provident issimus,"  &c.  iLC.—Jomande$  <U 
Rebus  GetictSy  c.  33. 

I  t>eg  leave  to  quote  these  gloomy  reaUties  to  keep  m 
countenance  ray  Giaour  and  Corsair. 


Canto 


THE  CORSAIR. 


.03 


Of  deeper  pMsioiis ;  and  to  judge  theb  mien, 
He,  who  would  see,  iniut  be  hiraself  unseen. 
Then — ^with  the  hurried  tread,  the  upward  eye, 
The  clenched  hand,  the  pause  of  agony, 
That  listens,  starting,  lest  the  step  too  near 
Approach  intrusive  on  that  mood  of  fear: 
Then — ^with  each  feature  woiiung  from  the  heart, 
With  feelings  loosed  to  strengthen — not  depart : 
That  rise— convulse— contend — that  freeze  or  glow, 
Flush  in  the  cheek,  or  damp  upon  the  brow ; 
Then — Stranger !  if  thou  canst,  and  tremblest  not, 
Behold  his  soul — the  rest  that  soothes  his  lot ! 
Mark — how  that  lone  and  btigfated  bosom  sean 
The  scathing  thought  of  execrated  yean ! 
Behold — ^but  who  hath  seen,  or  eVr  shall  see, 
Man  as  himself-^the  secret  spirit  free  7 


XI. 

Tet  was  not  Conrad  thus  by  Nature  sent 
To  lead  the  guilty — guilt's  worst  instrument — 
His  soul  was  changed,  before  his  deeds  had  driven 
Him  forth  to  war  with  man  and  forfeit  heaven. 
Warp*d  by  the  worid  in  Disappointment's  school, 
In  words  too  wise,  in  conduct  there  a  fool ; 
Too  finn  to  yield,  and  far  too  proud  to  stoop, 
Doom'd  by  his  very  virtues  for  a  dupe, 
He  cursed  those  virtues  as  the  cause  of  ill. 
And  not  the  traitors  who  betrayed  him  still ; 
Nor  deem'd  that  gifts  beetow'd  on  better  men 
Had  left  him  joy,  and  means  to  give  again. 
Fear'd — diunn'd— belied— ere    youth    had   lost    her 

force, 
He  hated  man  too  much  to  feel  remorse. 
And  thought  the  voice  of  wrath  a  sacred  call. 
To  pay  the  injuries  of  some  on  all. 
He  knew  himmlf  a  villain — but  he  deem*d 
The  rest  no  better  than  the  thing  he  seem'd ; 
And  Bcom'd  the  best  as  hypocrites  who  hid 
Those  deeds  the  bolder  spirit  plahily  did. 
He  knew  himself  detested,  but  he  knew 
Hie  hearts  that  loathed  him,  crouch'd  and  dreaded 

too. 
Lone,  wild,  and  strange,  he  stood  alike  exempt 
From  all  afection  and  from  all  contempt : 
His  name  could  sadden,  and  his  acts  surprise  ; 
But  they  that  fear'd  him  dared  not  to  despise : 
Man  spurns  the  worm,  but  pauses  ere  he  wake 
The  slumbering  venom  of  the  folded  snake : 
The  first  may  turn — but  not  avenge  the  blow ; 
The  last  expires — ^but  leaves  no  living  foe ; 
Fast  to  the  doom*d  offender's  form  it  clings, 
And  he  may  crush — ^no^.  conquer — still  it  stings  I 


XIL 

None  are  all  evil— quickening  round  his  heart, 

One  softer  feeling  would  not  yet  depart ; 

Oft  could  he  sneer  at  others  as  beguiled 

By  passions  worthy  of  a  fool  or  child ; 

Yet  'gainst  that  passion  vainly  stfll  he  strove, 

And  even  in  him  it  asks  the  name  of  Love ! 

Yes,  it  was  love— unchangeable— unchanged, 

Felt  but  for  one  from  whom  he  never  ranged ; 

Though  fairest  captives  daily  met  his  eye. 

He  shunn'd,  nor  sousffat,  but  coldly  paas'd  them  by ; 

Though  many  a  beauty  droop'd  in  prison'd  bowar, 

None  ever  soothed  his  most  unguanied  hour. 

Ye»— it  was  Love— if  thoughts  of  tenderness, 

Tntd  in  temptation,  strengtlien'd  by  distress, 


Unmoved  by  absence,  firm  in  every  clime. 

And  yet^ — Oh  more  than  all ! — untired  by  time ; 

Which  nor  defeated  hope,  nor  baffled  wile, 

Could  render  sullen  were  she  near  to  smile, 

Nor  rage  could  fire,  nor  sickness  fret  to  vent 

On  her  one  murmur  of  his  discontent ; 

Which  still  would  meet  with  joy,  with  calmness  part, 

Lest  that  his  look  of  grief  should  reach  her  heart : 

Which  naught  removed,  nor  menaced  to  remove— 

If  there  be  love  in  mortals — this  was  love ! 

He  was  a  villain — ay — reproaches  shower 

On  him — ^but  not  the  passion,  nor  its  power. 

Which  only  proved,  all  other  virtues  gone, 

Not  guilt  itself  could  quench  this  loveliest  one 


XIIL 

He  paused  a  moment — till  liis  hattemng  men 
Pass'd  the  first  winding  downward  to  the  glen. 
"  Strange  tidings ! — many  a  peril  have  I  pass*d. 
Nor  know  I  why  this  next  appears  the  last ! 
Yet  so  my  heart  forebodes,  but  must  not  fear. 
Nor  shall  my  followers  find  me  falter  here. 
'Tis  rash  to  meet,  but  surer  death  to  wait 
Till  here  they  hunt  us  to  undoubted  fate ; 
And,  if  my  plan  but  hold,  and  Fortune  smile. 
We'll  furnish  mourners  for  our  funeral  pile. 
Ay — ^let  them  slumber — peaceful  be  their  dreams ! 
IVforn  ne'er  awoke  them  with  such  brilliant  beams 
As  kindle  high  to-night  (but  blow,  thou  breeze !) 
To  warm  these  slow  avengers  of  the  seas. 
Now  to  Medora — Oh  I  my  sinking  heart, 
Long  may  her  own  be  lighter  than  thou  art ! 
Yet  was  I  brave — ^mean  boast  where  all  are  brave . 
Ev'n  insects  sting  for  aught  they  seek  to  save. 
This  common  courage  which  with  brutes  we  share. 
That  owes  its  deadliest  efforts  to  despau', 
Small  merit  claims — but  'twas  my  nobler  hope 
To  teach  my  few  with  numbers  still  to  cope ; 
Long  have  I  led  them — ^not  to  vainly  bleed : 
No  medium  now — we  perish  or  succeed ! 
So  let  it  be — it  irks  not  me  to  die ; 
But  thus  to  urge  them  whence  they  cannot  fly. 
My  lot  hath  long  had  little  of  my  care, 
But  chafes  my  pride  thus  baffled  in  the  snare : 
Is  this  my  skill?  my  craft?  to  set  at  last 
Hope,  power,  and  life  upon  a  single  cast  7 
Oh,  Fate ! — accuse  thy  folly,  not  thy  fate- 
She  may  redeem  thee  still — ^nor  yet  too  late." 


XIV. 

Thus  with  himself  communion  held  he,  till 
He  reach'd  the  summit  of  his  tower-crown'd  hill : 
There  at  the  portal  paused — for  wild  and  soft 
He  heard  those  accents  never  heard  too  oft ; 
Through  the  high  lattice  far  yet  sweet  they  rung, 
And  these  the  notes  the  bird  of  beauty  sung : 


"  Deep  in  my  soul  that  tender  secret  dwells, 
Lonely  and  lost  to  light  for  evermore. 

Save  when  to  thine  my  heart  responsive  swells. 
Then  trembles  into  silence  as  before. 

2. 

"  There,  in  its  centre,  a  sepulchral  lamp 
Bums  the  slow  flame,  eternal — but  unseen ; 

Which  not  the  darkness  of  despair  can  damp 
Though  vain  its  ray  as  it  had  never  been. 


104 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


3. 
<*  Remember  me — Ob !  pass  not  thou  my  grave 

Without  one  thought  whose  relics  there  recline : 
Tlie  only  pang  my  bosom  dare  not  brave 

Must  be  to  find  forgetfulnees  in  thine. 

4. 
'*  My  fondest — ^famtest — latest  accents  hear : 

Grief  for  the  dead  not  Virtue  can  reprove ; 
Then  give  me  all  I  ever  ask'd — a  tear, 

The  fiist— last— sole  reward  of  so  much  love !" 

He  pass'd  the  portal — crossed  the  corridore, 

And  reach'd  the  chamber  as  the  strain  gave  o*er: 

"  My  own  Medora !  sure  tliy  song  is  sad — ^** 

"  In  Conrad's  absence  wouldst  thou  have  it  glad  7 

Without  thine  ear  to  listen  to  my  lay, 

Still  must  my  song  my  thoughts,  my  soul  betray : 

Still  must  each  accent  to  my  bosom  suit. 

My  heart  unhush'd — although  my  lips  were  mute ! 

Oh !  many  a  night  on  this  lone  couch  reclined, 

My  dreaming  fear  with  storms  hath  winff'd  the  wind, 

And  deemM  the  breath  that  faintly  faun  d  thy  sail 

The  murmuiing  prelude  of  the  ruder  gale ; 

Though  soft,  it  seem'd  the  low  prophetic  dirge. 

That  moum*d  thee  floating  on  the  savage  surge : 

Still  would  I  rise  to  rouse  the  beacon  fire. 

Lest  spies  less  tru^  should  let  the  blaze  expire ; 

And  many  a  restless  hour  outwatch*d  each  star. 

And  morning  came — and  still  thou  wert  afar. 

Oh !  how  the  chill  blast  on  my  bosom  blew. 

And  day  broke  dreary  on  my  troubled  view. 

And  still  I  gazed  and  gazed — and  not  a  prow 

Was  grant^  to  my  tecus — ray  truth — ^my  vow ! 

At  length — 'twas  noon — I    haii'd    and    bless'd  the 

mast 
That  met  my  sight — it  near'd — Alas !  it  passed  I 
Another  came-^h  God !  'twas  thme  at  last ! 
Would  that  those  days  were  over !  wilt  thou  ne'er, 
My  Conrad !  learn  the  joys  of  peace  to  share  ? 
Sure  thou  hast  more  than  wealth,  and  many  a  home 
As  bright  as  this  invites  us  not  to  roam ' 
Thou  know'st  it  is  not  peril  that  I  fear 
I  only  tremble  when  thou  art  not  here , 
Then  not  for  mine,  but  that  far  dearer  life. 
Which  flies  from  love  and  languishes  for  strife- 
How  strange  that  heart,  to  me  so  tender  still, 
Should  war  with  nature  and  its  better  will  !"* 

"Yea,  strange   indeed — that  heart  hath  long  been 

changed; 
Worm*like  'twas  trampled — adder-like  avenged. 
Without  one  hope  on  earth  beyond  thy  love, 
And  scarce  a  glimpse  of  meroy  from  above. 
Yet  the  same  feeling  which  thou  dost  condemn, 
My  very  love  to  thee  is  hate  to  them. 
So  closely  mingimg  here,  that  disentwined, 
I  cease  to  love  thee  when  I  love  mankind : 
Yet  dread  not  this — the  proof  of  all  the  past 
Assures  the  future  that  my  love  will  last ; 
But — Oh,  Medora !  nerve  thy  gentler  heart, 
This  hour  agam— but  not  for  long— we  part" 


1  [Lord  Byron  has  made  a  fine  use  of  the  gentleness  and 
submission  of  the  females  of  these  regions,  as  contrasted 
with  the  lordly  pride  and  martial  ferocity  or  the  men :  and 
though  we  suspect  he  has  lent  them  more  9<ml  than  of  right 
belongs  to  them,  as  well  as  more  delicacy  and  reflection ; 
yet,  theie  is  something  so  true  to  female  nature  in  general. 


"  This  hour  we  part ! — my  heart  foreboded  this  • 

Thus  ever  fade  my  fairy  dreams  of  bUas. 

This  hour — ^it  cannot  be — this  hour  away ! 

Yon  bark  hath  hardly  anchor'd  in  the  bay ; 

Her  consort  still  is  absent,  and  her  crew 

Have  need  of  rest  before  they  toil  anew : 

My  love !  thou  mock'st  my  weakness ;  and  wouldst 

steel 
My  breast  before  the  tune  when  it  must  feel ; 
But  trifle  now  no  more  with  my  distress. 
Such  mirth  hath  less  of  play  than  bitterness. 
Be  silent,  Conrad !— dearest !  come  and  share 
The  feast  these  hands  delighted  to  prepare ; 
Dgfat  toil !  to  cull  and  dress  thy  frugal  fare  ! 
See,  I  have  pluck'd  the  fruit  that  promised  best, 
And  where  not  sure,  perplez'd,  but  pleased,  I  guess'd 
At  such  as  seem'd  the  fahest ;  thrice  the  hill 
My  steps  have  wound  to  try  the  coolest  rill ; 
Yes !  thy  sheibet  to-night  will  sweetly  flow. 
See  how  it  sparkles  m  its  vase  of  snow ! 
The  grapes'  gay  juice  thy  bosom  never  cheers ; 
Thou  more  than  Modem  when  the  cup  appears : 
Think  not  I  mean  to  chide— for  I  rejoice 
What  others  deem  a  penance  is  thy  choice. 
But  come,  the  board  is  spread ;  our  silver  lamp 
Is  trimm'd,  and  heeds  not  the  sirocco's  damp : 
Then  shall  my  handmaids  while  the  time  along. 
And  joui  with  me  the  dance,  or  wake  the  song ; 
Or  my  guitar,  which  still  thou  lov'st  to  hear, 
Shall  soothe  or  lull— or,  should  it  vex  thine  ear. 
We'll  turn  the  tale,  by  Ariosto  told. 
Of  fair  Olympia  loved  and  left  of  old.* 
Why — thou  wert  worse  than  he  who  broke  his  vow 
To  that  lost  damsel,  diouldst  thou  leave  me  now ; 
Or  even  that  traitor  chief — I've  seen  thee  smile. 
When  the  clear  sky  show'd  Ariadne's  Isle, 
Which  I  have  pointed  from  these  elifib  the  while : 
And  thus,  half  sportive,  half  in  fear,  I  said, 
Lest  Tune  should  raise  that  doubt  to  more  than  dread, 
Thus  Conrad,  too,  will  quit  me  for  the  mam : 
And  he  deceived  me — for — he  came  again  !'* 

"  Afl;ain — agam — and  oft  agam — my  love ! 
If  there  be  life  below,  and  hope  above. 
He  will  return — but  now,  the  moments  bring 
The  time  of  parting  with  redoubled  wmg : 
The  why — ^the  where — what  boots  it  now  to  tell  ? 
Smce  all  must  end  in  that  wild  word-rfarewell ! 
Yet  would  I  fam— did  thAe  allow— disclose — 
Fear  not — these  are  no  formidable  foes ; 
And  here  shall  watch  a  more  than  wonted  guard. 
For  sudden  siege  and  long  defence  prepared : 
Nor  be  thou  lonely — thoi^  thy  lord's  away, 
Our  matrons  and  thy  handmaid  with  thee  stay ; 
And  this  thy  comfort — that,  when  next  we  meet. 
Security  shall  make  repose  more  sweet 
List !— 'tis  the  bugle"— Juan  shrilly  Uew— 
"  One  kis»— one  more— another— Oh !  Adieu !" 

She  rose— she  sprung— die  clung  to  his  embrace, 
Till  his  heart  heaved  beneath  her  hidden  face. 
He  dared  not  raise  to  his  that  deep-blue  eye. 
Which  downcast  droop'd  m  teariess  agony. 


in  his  representations  of  this  sort^  and  so  much  of  th^0TS> 
entalsofmess  and  acquiescence  m  his  particular  delmcv 
tions,  that  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  refuse  the  picture  tho 
praise  of  being  charactenstic  and  haimonious,  as  well  as 
eminently  sweet  and  beautiful  in  itself.— JsppasY.] 
*  Orlando  Furioso,  Canto  x. 


•"• 


r  . 


•  ' 


Canto  i. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


105 


Her  kij{iair  hair  lay  floatinir  o*er  his  anna. 


If 


I.  .  . 


^     ^,..,< 


'  f.    •  .    n     "• 


-  1, 


h 


Aa  i,«>^«iy  more  beautiAil  or 
I  ptoture  of  their  parting.—JiPFEiT.] 


14 


*  By  night,  particularly  in  a  warm  latitude,  every  stroke 
of  the  oar,  every  motion  of  the  boat  or  ship,  is  followed  by 
a  alight  flash  like  sheet  lightning  from  the  water 


Canto  i. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


105 


Her  long  iair  hair  lay  floatiiiff  o'er  hie  arme, 
In  all  the  wildneee  of  diehercSl'd  channe ; 
Scarce  beat  that  boeom  where  hie  image  dwelt 
So  full — that  feeling  seem'd  abnost  tuSelt ! 
Hark — peak  the  thunder  of  the  signal-gun ! 
It  told  *twas  ennsetr— and  he  eureed  thiU  sun. 
Again — again — that  form  he  madly  preesM, 
Which  mntely  daepM,  imploringly  carees'd ! 
And  tottering  to  the  couch  hie  bnde  he  bore, 
One  moment  gazed — as  if  to  gaze  no  more ; 
Felt — that  for  him  earth  held  but  her  alone, 
IQM*d  her  cold  forehead — tum'd — is  Conrad  gone? 

XV. 

**  And  is  he  gone  ?*'— on  sudden  solitude 

How  oft  that  fearful  question  will  intrude ! 

"  TwBS  but  an  instant  past — and  here  he  stood ! 

And  now" — ^without  the  portal's  porch  she  rush'd, 

And  then  at  length  her  tears  in  freedom  gush'd ; 

Big— bright — and  fast,  unknown  to  her  they  fell ; 

Bat  still  her  Ups  refused  to  send—"  FareweU !" 

for  m  that  word — that  fatal  word — howe'er 

We  prooiise — hope— believe — ^there  breathes  despair. 

O'er  OTery  feature  of  that  still,  pale  &ce. 

Had  sonow  fix'd  what  time  can  ne'er  erase : 

The  tender  Uue  of  that  laige  lovmg  eye 

Grew  frozen  with  its  gaze  on  vacancy. 

Till — Oh,  how  £Eur ! — it  caught  a  glimpse  of  him, 

And  then  it  flow'd— «nd  phrensied  seem'd  to  swim. 

Through  those  long,  dark,  and  glistening  lashes  dew'd 

With  mops  of  sadiMss  oft  to  be  renew'd. 

<*  He's  gone !" — against  her  heart  that  hand  is  driven, 

Convolsed  and  qmck — then  gently  raised  to  heaven; 

She  kwk'd  and  saw  the  heaving  of  the  main ; 

The  white  sail  set— she  dared  not  look  again ; 

But  tnm'd  with  sickening  soul  within  the  gate — 

'^  It  is  so  dream — and  I  am  desolate  I"* 


XVL 
From  crag  to  crag  descending— swiftly  sped 
Stem  Co^ad  down,  nor  once  he  turn  d  his  head ; 
But  shrunk  whene'er  the  windings  of  his  way 
Forced  on  his  eye  what  he  would  not  survey, 
His  lone,  but  lovely  dwelliiur  on  the  steep. 
That  hail'd  him  first  when  homeward  from  the  deep : 
And  she— the  dim  and  melancholy  star. 
Whose  ray  of  beauty  reach'd  him  from  afar, 
On  her  he  must  not  gaze,  he  must  not  think, 
There  he  might  rest — ^bnt  on  Destruction's  brink : 
Yet  onoe  almost  he  stopp'd — and  nearly  gave 
His  fiUe  to  chance,  his  projects  to  the  wave : 
But  DO— it  must  not  be— a  worthy  chief 
May  melt«  but  not  betray  to  woman's  grief. 
He  sees  his  bark,  he  notes  how  fair  the  wind, 
And  sternly  gathers  all  his  might  of  mind : 
Again  he  hurries  ou — and  as  he  hears 
The  dang  of  tumult  vibrate  on  his  ears. 
The  busy  sounds,  the  bustle  of  the  shore, 
The  shout,  the  signal,  and  the  dashing  oar ; 
As  marks  his  eye  the  seaboy  on  the  mast. 
The  anchors  rise,  the  sails  unfuriing  fast. 
The  waving  kerchiefs  of  the  crowd  that  urge 
That  mute  a^u  to  those  who  stem  the  surge ; 
And  more  than  all,  his  blood-red  flag  aloft, 
He  marvell'd  how  his  heart  could  seem  so  soft 


>  [We  do  not  know  any  thing  in  poetry  more  beautifiil  or 
loQefaiBg  than  this  picture  of  their  parting.— Jbpfebt.] 


14 


Fire  in  his  glance,  and  wildness  in  his  breast. 
He  feels  of  all  his  former  self  possees'd ; 
He  bounds — he  flies — ^until  his  footsteps  reach 
The  verge  where  ends  the  cliff,  begins  the  beach. 
There  checks  his  speed ;  but  pauses  less  to  breathe 
The  breezy  freshness  of  the  deep  beneath. 
Than  there  his  wonted  statelier  step  renew ; 
Nor  rurti,  distuib*d  by  haste,  to  vulgar  view : 
For  weU  had  Conrad  leam'd  to  curb  the  crowd, 
By  arts  that  veil,  and  oft  preserve  the  proud ; 
His  was  the  lofty  port,  the  distant  mien. 
That  seems  to  ^un  the  sight — and  awes  if  seen : 
The  solemn  aspect,  and  the  high-bom  eye. 
That  checks  low  mirth,  but  lacks  not  courtesy ; 
All  these  he  wielded  to  command  assent ; 
But  where  he  wish'd  to  win,  so  well  unbent. 
That  kindness  cancelled  fear  iu  thoee  who  heard, 
And  others'  gifts  show'd  mean  beside  his  word, 
When  echo'd  to  the  heart  us  from  his  own 
His  deep  yet  tender  melody  of  tone : 
But  such  was  foreign  to  his  wonted  mood. 
He  cared  not  what  he  soften'd,  but  subdued ; 
The  evil  passions  of  his  youth  had  made 
Him  value  less  who  loved — than  what  obey'd. 

XVII. 

Around  him  mustering  ranged  his  ready  guard. 
Before  him  Juan  stands — **  Are  all  prepared  T 

"  They  are— nay  more— embark'd :  the  latest  boat 

Waits  but  my  chief " 

**  My  sword,  and  my  capote." 
Soon  firmly  girded  on,  and  lightly  slung. 
His  belt  and  cloak  were  o'er  his  dioulders  flung: 
"  Call  Pedro  here !"    He  comes— and  Conrad  bends, 
With  all  the  courtesy  he  deign'd  his  friends ; 
"  Receive  these  tablets,  and  peruse  with  care, 
Words  of  high  trust  and  troth  are  graven  there ; 
Double  the  guard,  and  when  Anselmo's  bark 
Arrives,  let  him  alike  these  orders  mark : 
In  three  days  (serve  the  breeze)  the  sun  diall  shine 
On  our  return — till  then  all  peace  be  thine !" 
This  said,  his  brother  Pirate's  hand  he  wrung. 
Then  to  his  boat  with  haughty  gesture  sprung. 
Flash'd  the  dipp'd  oars,  and  sparkling  with  the  stroke. 
Around  the  waves*  phosphoric'  brightness  broke ; 
They  gain  the  vessel— on  the  deck>he  stands, — 
Shrieks  the  diriD  whistle — ply  the  busy  hands-— 
He  marks  how  well  the  ship  her  holm  obeys. 
How  gallant  all  her  crew — and  deigns  to  praise. 
His  eyes  of  pride  to  young  Gonsalvo  turn — 
Why  doth  he  start,  and  inly  seem  to  moum? 
Alas !  those  eyes  beheld  his  rocky  tower. 
And  live  a  moment  o'er  the  parting  hour ; 
She — his  Medora — did  she  mark  the  prow? 
Ah !  never  loved  he  half  so  much  as  now ! 
But  much  must  yet  be  done  ere  dawn  of  day — 
Again  he  mans  himself  and  turns  away ; 
Down  to  the  cabin  with  Ckmsalvo  bends, 
And  there  unfolds  his  plan — his  means — and  ends : 
Before  them  bums  the  lamp,  and  spreads  the  chart. 
And  all  that  speaks  and  aids  the  naval  art ; 
They  to  the  midnight  watch  protract  debate ; 
To  anxious  eyes  what  hour  is  ever  late  7 
Meantime,  the  steady  breeze  serenelv  blew, 
And  fast  and  falcon-like  the  vessel  flew ; 


>  By  night,  particularly  in  a  warm  latitude,  every  stroke 
of  the  oar,  erery  motion  of  the  boat  or  ship,  is  followed  by 
a  slight  flash  like  sheet  lightning  from  the  water 


106 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


PassM  the  high  headlandi  of  each  clostetiiig  isle, 

To  grain  their  port — long — long  ere  morning  smile : 
I  And  soon  the  night-glass  through  the  narrow  bay 
I   Discovers  where  the  Pacha's  galleys  lay. 
'  Coiuit  they  each  sail — and  mark  how  there  supine 

llio  lights  in  vain  o'er  heedless  Moslem  shine. 
'  Secure,  unnoted,  Conrad's  prow  pass'd  by, 

^nd  anchored  where  his  ambush  meant  to  lie ! 
i  Screcu'd  from  espial  by  the  jutting  cape, 

That  rears  on  high  its  rude  fantastic  shape. 

Then  rose  his  band  to  duty — not  from  sleep— 
'   B>)uipp*d  for  deeds  alike  on  land  or  deep ; 
I   While  lean'd  their  leader  o'er  the  fretting  flood, 
I  And  cahnly  talk'd — and  yet  he  talk'd  of  blood ! 


THE  CORSAIR. 


OANTO  THE  UECOND. 


*  Conosceste  i  dubiosi  desiri  ?**— Dantb 


In  Coron's  bay  floats  many  a  galley  light. 
Through  Coron's  lattices  the  lamps  are  bright. 
For  Seyd,  the  Pacha,  makes  a  feast  to-ni^t : 
A  feast  for  promised  triumph  yet  to  come, 
When  he  shall  drag  the  fettered  Rovers  home : 
This  hath  he  swoni  by  Alia  and  his  sword, 
Aud  faithful  to  his  firman  and  his  word, 
His  summoned  prows  collect  along  the  coast, 
And  great  the  gathering  crews,  and  loud  the  boast ; 
Already  shared  the  captives  and  the  prize, 
Though  far  the  distant  foe  they  thus  despise ; 
'Tis  but  to  sail — no  doubt  to-morrow's  Sun 
Will  see  the  Pirates  bound — their  haven  won ! 
Meantime  the  watch  may  slumber,  if  they  will, 
Nor  only  wake  to  war,  but  dreaming  kiU. 
Though  all,  who  can,  disperse  on  shore  and  seek 
To  flesh  their  glowing  valor  on  the  Greek ; 
How  well  such  deed  becomes  the  turban'd  bravo^ 
To  bare  the  sabre's  edge  before  a  slave ! 
Infest  his  dwelling — but  forbear  to  slay, 
Their  arms  are  strong,  yet  merciful  to-day. 
And  do  not  deign  to  smite  because  they  may ! 
ITnloss  some  gay  caprice  suggests  the  blow. 
To  keep  in  practice  for  the  coming  foe. 
Revel  and  rout  the  evening  hours  beguile. 
And  they  who  wish  to  wear  a  head  must  smile ; 
For  Moslem  mouths  produce  their  choicest  cheer, 
And  hoard  their  curses,  till  the  coast  is  clear. 

II. 

High  in  his  hall  reclines  the  turban'd  Seyd ; 
Around — the  bearded  chiefs  he  came  to  lead. 
Removed  the  banquet,  and  the  last  pilafF— 
Forbidden^draughts,  'tis  said,  he  darea  to  quaff, 


1  CofTee         »"  Chibouque,"  pipe.        '  Dancing  girls. 

*  It  has  been  observed,  that  Conrad  s  entering  cisguised 
as  a  spv  is  out  of  nature.  Perhaps  8f».  I  find  something 
not  unlike  it  in  history :—"  Anxious  to  explore  wilb  his 
own  eye;;  the  state  of  the  Vandals,  Majorion  ventured^  after 
disguising  the  color  of  his  hair,  to  risit  Carthage  m  the 


Though  to  the  rest  the  sober  bernr's  juice,* 
The  daves  bear  round  for  rigid  Moslems'  use ; 
The  long  chibouque's"  dissolving  cloud  supply. 
While  dance  the  Airaas*  to  wild  minstrelsy. 
The  rising  mom  will  view  the  chiefis  embark  ; 
But  waves  are  somewhat  treacherous  in  the  daik : 
And  reveUers  may  more  securely  sleep 
On  silken  couch  than  o'er  the  rugged  deep; 
Feast  there  who  can — ^nor  combat  till  they  must, 
And  less  to  conquest  tlian  to  Korans  trust ; 
And  yet  the  numbers  crowded  iu  his  host 
Might  warrant  more  than  even  the  Pacha's  boast 

IIL 

With  cautious  reverence  from  the  outer  gate, 
Slow  stalks  the  slave,  whose  office  there  to  wait. 
Bows  his  bent  head — his  hand  salutes  the  floor. 
Ere  yet  his  tongue  the  trusted  tidings  bore : 
<*  A  captive  Dervise,  from  the  pirate's  nest 
Escaped,  is  here— hunself  would  tell  the  rest"* 
He  took  the  sign  from  Seyd's  assenting  eye. 
And  led  the  holy  man  in  silence  nigh.  • 

His  arms  were  folded  on  his  darii-green  vest. 
His  step  was  feeble,  and  his  look  depress'd ; 
Yet  worn  he  seem'd  of  hardship  more  than  yean, 
And  pale  his  cheek  with  penance,  not  from  fe&». 
Vow'd  to  his  Grod — his  sable  locks  he  wore. 
And  these  his  lofty  cap  rose  proudly  o'er: 
Around  his  form  his  loose  long  robe  was  thrown. 
And  wrapp'd  a  breast  bestow'd  on  heaven  alone ; 
Submissive,  yet  with  self-posseasion  mann'd. 
He  calmly  met  the  curious  eyes  that  scann'd ; 
And  question  of  his  comine  fain  would  seek, 
Before  the  Pacha's  will  allow'd  to  speak. 

IV. 

"  Whence  com'st  thou,  Dervise  T 

"  From  the  outlaw's  den, 
A  fugitive — " 

"  Thy  capture  where  and  when  ?" 
"  From  Scalanovo's  port  to  Scio's  isle, 
The  Saick  was  bound ;  but  Alia  did  not  smile 
Upon  our  course — ^the  Moslem  merchant's  gains 
The  Rovers  won :  our  limbs  have  worn  their  chains. 
I  had  no  death  to  fear,  nor  wealth  to  boast, 
Beyond  the  wandering  freedom  which  I  lost ; 
At  length  a  fisher's  humble  boat  by  night 
Aflbrded  hope,  and  ofl*er'd  chance  of  flight ; 
I  seized  the  hour,  and  find  my  safety  here — 
With  thee — most  mighty  Pacha !  who  can  fear  ?" 

"  How  speed  the  outlaws?  stand  they  well  prepared. 
Their  plunder'd  wealth,  and  robber's  rock,  to  guard  ? 
Dream  they  of  this  our  preparation,  doom'd 
To  view  with  fire  their  scorpion  nest  consumed  ?" 

**  Pacha !  the  fetter'd  captive's  mourning  eye, 

That  weeps  for  flight,  but  ill  can  play  the  ^y ; 

I  only  heard  the  reckless  waters  roar. 

Those  waves  that  would  not  bear  mo  from  the  shore ; 

I  only  mark'd  the  glorious  sim  and  sky, 

Too  bright — ^too  blue — for  my  captivity ; 


character  of  his  own  ambassador ;  and  Genseric  was  after- 
wards mortified  by  the  discovery,  that  he  had  entertained 
and  dismissed  the  Emperor  of  the  Romans.  Such  an  anec- 
dote may  be  rejected  as  an  improbable  fiction :  but  it  is  a 
fiction  which  would  not  have  been  imagined  unless  in  the  life 
of  a  hero.**— See  Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall,  vol.  vi.  p.  160. 


CilNTO   II. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


107 


And  felt — that  all  which  Freedom's  bosom  cfaeezB, 
Most  break  my  chain  before  it  dried  my  teaia 
'niis  mayst  thou  judge,  at  least,  from  my  escape, 
They  little  deem  of  auefat  in  peril^s  shape ; 
Else  Tainly  had  I  pray  d  or  sought  the  chance 
That  leads  me  here — if  eyed  with  vigilance : 
The  careless  guard  that  did  not  see  me  fly, 
May  watch  as  idly  when  thy  power  is  nigh. 
Pacha ! — my  limbs  are  faint — and  nature  craves 
Food  for  my  hunger,  rest  from  tossing  waves : 
^ermit  my  absence — peace  be  with  thee !  Peace 
With  all  around ! — ^now  grant  repose— release." 

**  Stay,  Dervise !  I  have  more  to  question — stay, 
I  do  command  thee— sit— dost  hear? — obey ! 
More  I  must  ask,  and  food  the  slaves  shall  bring ; 
Thou  shalt  not  pine  where  all  are  banqueting : 
The  supper  done— prepare  thee  to  reply. 
Clearly  and  full — I  love  not  mystery." 

Twere  vain  to  ffuess  what  shook  the  pious  man. 
Who  kwk'd  not  lovingly  on  that  Divan ; 
Hor  showM  high  reli£  for  the  banquet  preas'd. 
And  less  respect  for  every  fellow  guest 
Twas  but  a  moment's  peevish  hectic  poss'd 
Along  his  cheek,  and  tranquillized  as  fast : 
He  sate  him  down  in  silence,  and  his  look 
Resumed  the  calmness  which  before  forsook : 
The  feast  was  u^er'd  in — but  sumptuous  fare 
He  shunn*d  as  if  some  poison  mingled  there. 
For  one  so  long  coudemnM  to  toil  and  fast, 
Methinka  he  strangely  spares  the  rich  repast 

**  What  ails  thee,  Dervise?  eatr— dost  thou  suppose 
This  feast  a  Christianas?  or  my  friends  thy  foes? 
Why  dost  thou  shun  the  salt  7  that  sacred  pledge. 
Which,  once  partaken,  blunts  the  sabre's  edge. 
Makes  even  contending  tribes  in  peace  unite. 
And  hated  hosts  seem  brethren  to  the  sight !" 


I  "  Salt  seasons  diunties — and  my  food  is  still 
I  The  hnroble«t  root,  my  drink  the  simplest  riU ; 
And  my  stem  vow  and  order's*  laws  oppose 
To  break  or  mingle  bread  with  friends  or  foes ; 
It  may  seem  strange — if  there  be  aught  to  dread. 
That  peril  rests  upon  my  single  head  ; 
'  But  for  thy  sway — ^nay  more — ^thy  Sultan's  throne, 
I  taste  nor  bread  nor  banquet — save  alone  ; 
Infringed  our  order's  rule,  the  Prophet's  rage 
To  Mecca's  dome  might  bar  my  pilgrimage." 


I  "  Well — as  thou  wilt — ascetic  as  thou  art — 
I  One  question  answer;  then  in  peace  depart 

How  many  ? — Ha  I  it  cannot  sure  be  day  ? 

What  star — ^what  sun  is  bursting  on  the  l>ay  7 

It  shines  a  lake  of  fire ! — away — away ! 

Ho!  treachery!  my  guards!  my  scimitar! 

'Hie  galleys  feed  the  names — and  I  afar ! 

Aociused  Dervise  I — these  thy  tidings — thou 

Some  villain  spy — seize— cleave  him— slay  him  now !" 

Up  rose  the  Dervise  with  that  burst  of  light. 
Nor  less  his  change  of  form  appall'd  the  sight : 
Up  rose  that  Dervise— not  in  saintly  garb. 
But  like  a  warrior  bounding  on  his  beu-b. 


>  The  Dervises  are  in  colleges,  and  of  different  orders,  as 
the  monks. 
» *•  Zatanai,"  Satan. 
*  ▲  eommon  and  not  very  novel  effect  of  Mussulman 


Dash'd  his  high  cap,  and  tore  his  robe  away — 
Shone  his  maiFd  breast,  and  flash'd  his  sabre's  ray ! 
His  close  but  glittering  casque,  and  sable  plume. 
More  glittering  eye.  and  black  brow's  sabler  gloom, 
Glared  on  the  Moslems'  eyes  some  Afrit  sprite. 
Whose  demon  death-blow  left  no  hope  for  fight 
The  wild  confusion,  and  the  swarthy  glow 
Of  flames  on  high,  and  torches  from  l^low ; 
The  shriek  of  terror,  and  the  mingling  yell — 
For  swords  began  to  clash,  and  shouts  to  swell — 
Flung  o'er  that  spot  of  earth  the  air  of  hell ! 
Distracted,  to  and  fro,  the  flying  slaves 
Behold  but  bloody  shore  and  fiery  waves ; 
Naught  heeded  they  the  Pacha's  angry  cry. 
They  seize  that  Dervise  .'—seize  on  Zatauai  !* 
He  saw  their  terro^— check'd  the  first  despair 
That  urged  him  but  to  stand  and  perish  there. 
Since  far  too  early  and  too  well  obey'd. 
The  flame  was  kindled  ere  the  signal  made ; 
He  saw  their  terror — from  his  baldric  drew 
His  bugle— brief  the  blast — but  shrilly  blew ; 
'Tis  answer*d— "  Well  ye  speed,  my  gallant  crew ! 
Why  did  I  doubt  their  quickness  of  career  ? 
And  deem  design  had  left  me  single  here  ?" 
Sweeps  his  long  arm — that  sabre's  whirling  sway 
Sheds  fast  atonement  for  its  first  delay  ; 
Completes  his  fury  what  their  fear  begun, 
And  makes  the  many  basely  quail  to  one. 
The  cloven  turbans  o'er  the  chamber  spread, 
And  scarce  an  arm  dare  rise  to  guard  its  head : 
Even  Seyd,  convulsed,  o'erwhelm'd  with  rage,  sur- 
prise, 
Retreats  before  him,  though  he  still  defiesi 
No  craven  he — and  yet  he  dreads  the  blow, 
So  much  Confusion  magnifies  his  foe ! 
His  blazing  galleys  still  distract  his  sight. 
He  tore  his  beard,  and  foaming  fled  the  fight  ;* 
For  now  the  pirates  pass'd  the  Harem  gate, 
And  burst  within — and  it  were  death  to  wait ; 
Where  wild  Amazement  shrieking — kneeling — ^throws 
The  sword  aside — ^in  vain — ^the  blood  o'erflows ! 
The  Corsairs  pouring,  haste  to  where  within, 
Invited  Conrad's  bugle,  and  the  din 
Of  groaning  victims,  and  wild  cries  for  life, 
Proclaim'd  how  well  he  did  the  woik  of  strife. 
They  shout  to  find  him  grim  and  lonely  there, 
A  glutted  tiger  mangling  in  his  lair ! 
But  short  their  greeting — shorter  his  reply — 
"  'Tis  well — ^but  Seyd  escapes — and  he  must  die — 
Much  hath  been  done — ^but  more  remains  to  do- 
Their  galleys  blaze — why  not  their  city  too?" 


Quick  at  the  word — ^they  seized  hhn  each  a  torch, 

And  fire  the  dome  from  minaret  to  porch. 

A  stem  delight  was  fix'd  in  Conrad's  eye, 

But  sudden  sunk — ^for  on  his  ear  the  crv 

Of  women  struck,  and  like  a  deadly  knell 

Knock'd  at  that  heart  unmoved  by  battle's  yelL 

"  Oh !  burst  the  Harem — ^wrong  not  on  your  lives 

One  female  form — remember — toe  have  wives. 

On  them  such  outrage  Vengeance  will  repay ; 

Man  is  our  foe,  and  such  'tis  ours  to  slay : 

But  still  we  spared — ^must  spare  the  weaker  prey. 


anger.  See  Prince  Eugene's  Memoirs,  page  24.  "The 
Seraslder  received  a  wound  in  the  thigh :  he  plucked  up 
Ms  beard  by  the  roots,  because  he  was  obliged  to  quit  the 
field." 


108 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  h. 


Oh !  I  forgot— bnt  Heayen  wfll  not  foighre 

If  at  my  word  the  helptev  oeaae  to  Ihre : 

Follow  who  wiU — I  go-«we  yet  have  time 

Our  soob  to  lighten  of  at  least  a  crime.*' 

He  cUmbs  the  crackling  stair — he  bants  the  door, 

Nor  feels  his  feet  glow  scorching  with  the  floor ; 

His  breath  choked  gasping  with  the  yohmied  smoko, 

But  still  from  room  to  room  his  way  he  broke. 

They  search — they  find — they  save :  with  lusty  aims 

Each  bean  a  prize  of  unregarded  charms ; 

Calm  their  loud  fean ;  sustain  their  smking  fniOBB 

With  all  the  care  defenceless  beauty  claims: 

So  well  could  Conrad  tame  their  fiercest  mood, 

And  check  the  very  hands  with  gore  imbrued. 

But  who  is  she  7  whom  Conrad's  arms  convey 

From  reeking  pile  and  combat's  wred^— away-« 

Who  but  the  love  of  him  he  dooms  to  bleed? 

The  Harem  queen — but  still  the  slave  of  Seyd ! 


VL 

Brief  time  had  Conrad  now  to  greet  Gulnare,* 

Few  words  to  reassure  the  trembling  fair ; 

For  in  that  pause  compassion  snatch'd  from  war, 

The  foe  before  retiring,  fast  and  far,  * 

With  wonder  saw  their  footsteps  unpursued, 

Fint  slowlier  fled — then  rallied — theu  withstood. 

This  Seyd  perceives,  then  first  perceives  how  few. 

Compared  with  his,  the  Coreair's  roving  crew, 

And  blushes  o*er  h^  error,  as  he  eyes 

Hie  ruin  wrought  by  panic  and  surprise. 

Alia  il  Alia !  Vengeance  swells  the  cry — 

Shame  mounts  to  rage  that  must  atone  or  die ! 

And  flame  for  flame  and  blood  for  Mood  must  tell, 

The  tide  of  triumph  ebbs  that  flow'd  too  well — 

When  wrath  returns  to  renovated  strife, 

And  those  who  fouffht  for  conquest  strike  for  life. 

Conrad  beheld  the  danger — he  beheld 

His  followen  faint  by  freshening  foes  repell'd : 

"  One  eflbrtr— one — ^to  break  the  circling  host !" 

They  form — unite— charge— waver— all  is  lost ! 

Within  a  narrower  ring  compress'd,  beset. 

Hopeless,  not  heartless,  strive  and  struggle  yet — 

Ah !  now  they  fight  in  firmest  file  no  more, 

Henun'd    m— cut    off— cleft    down — and    trampled 

o'er; 
But  each  strikes  singly,  silently,  and  home, 
And  sinks  outweariM  rather  than  o'eroome. 
His  last  faint  quittance  rendering  with  his  breath, 
Till  the  blade  glimmen  in  the  grasp  of  death ! 


vn. 

But  fint,  ere  came  the  rallying  host  to  Mows, 
And  rank  to  rank,  and  hand  to  hand  oppose, 
Gulnare  and  all  her  Harem  handmaids  freed. 
Safe  in  the  dome  of  one  who  held  their  creed, 
By  Conrad's  mandate  safely  were  bestow'd, 
And  dried  those  tean  for  life  and  fame  that  flow'd ; 
And  when  that  dark-eyed  lady,  young  Grulnare, 
Recall'd  those  thoughts  late  wandering  in  despair, 
Much  did  she  marvel  o'er  tlie  courtesy 
Hiat  smooth*d  his  accents ;  soflen*d  in  his  eye : 
'Twas  strange — that  robber  thus  with  gore  bedew'd, 
Seem'd  genUer  then  than  Seyd  in  fondest  mood. 


Oulnare,  a  female  name ;  it  means,  literally,  the  flower 
of  the  pomegranate. 


Tlie  PiMfaa  woo'd  as  if  he  deem'd  the  slave 
Must  seem  delighted  with  the  heart  he  gave ; 
Tlie  Corsair  row'd  protection,  soothed  afiright. 
As  if  his  homage  were  a  woman's  right 
«  The  wish  is  wrong— nay,  wone  for  female— vain : 
Yet  much  I  kmg  to  view  that  chief  again ; 
If  but  to  thank  for,  what  my  fear  forgot, 
Tlie  life— my  loving  lord  remember'd  not !" 

VHL 

And  him  she  saw,  where  thickest  carnage  spread, 

But  ffather'd  breathing  from  the  happier  deaid  ; 

Far  mmi  his  band,  and  battling  with  a  host 

That  deem  right  dearly  won  the  field  he  lost, 

FoU'd—Ueeduig— baffled  of  the  death  he  sought. 

And  snatch'd  to  expiate  all  the  ills  he  wrought ; 

Preserved  to  linger  and  to  live  hi  vam. 

While  Yenffeance  ponder'd  o'er  new  plans  of  pain. 

And  stanchM  the  blood  die  saves  to  ihed  again — 

But  drop  for  drop,  for  Seyd's  unglutted  eye 

Would  doom  him  ever  dying — ne'er  to  die ! 

Can  this  be  he?  triumphant  late  she  saw. 

When  his  red  hand's  wild  gesture  waved,  a  la» 

'TIS  he  indeed — disarm'd  but  undepress'd. 

His  sole  regret  the  life  he  still  possees'd ; 

His  wounds  too  slight,  though  taken  with  that  will. 

Which  would  have  Idss'd  the  hand  that  thon  could 

kill. 
Oh  were  there  none,  of  all  the  many  given. 
To  send  his  soul — he  scaroely  ask'd  to  heaven? 
Must  he  alone  of  all  retain  his  breath. 
Who  more  than  all  had  striven  and  struck  for  death  ? 
He  deeply  felt — what  mortal  hearts  must  feel. 
When  thus  revered  on  faithless  fortune's  wheel. 
For  crimes  committed,  and  the  victor's  threat 
Of  lingering  tortures  to  repay  the  debt — 
He  deeply,  darkly  felt ;  but  evil  pride 
That  led  to  peipetrate— now  serves  to  hide. 
Still  in  his  stem  and  self-coUected  mien 
A  conqueror's  more  than  captive's  air  is  seen, 
Though  faint  with  wasting  toil  and  stiflening  wound, 
But  few  that  saw— so  calmly  gazed  around : 
Tliougfa  the  far  shouting  of  the  distant  crowd. 
Their  tremon  o'er,  rose  insolently  loud. 
The  better  warrion  who  beheld  him  near. 
Insulted  nqt  the  foe  who  tausht  them  fear ; 
And  the  grim  ruaids  that  to  his  durance  led. 
In  silence  eyed  him  with  a  secret  dread. 

IX. 

The  Leech  was  sent — but  not  in  mercy — there. 
To  note  how  much  the  life  yet  left  codd  bear ; 
He  found  enough  to  load  with  heaviest  chain. 
And  promise  feeling  for  the  wrench  of  pain : 
To-morrow — yea — to-morrow's  evening  sun 
Will  sinkmg  see  impalement's  pangs  begun. 
And  rising  with  the  wonted  blush  of  mom 
Behold  how  well  or  ill  those  pangs  are  borne. 
Of  torments  this  the  longest  and  the  worst. 
Which  adds  all  other  agony  to  thirst. 
That  day  by  day  death  still  forbeara  to  slake. 
While  famished  vultures  flit  around  the  stake. 
•*  Oh  I  water — water !" — smiling  Hate  denies 
Tlie  victim's  prayer — for  if  he  ^nks — ho  dies. 
This  was  his  doom: — the  Leech,  the  guard, 

gone. 
And  left  proud  Conrad  fetter'd  and  alone. 


Cantc  II. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


109 


*Twere  Tain  to  paint  to  what  hia  feelinga  grew— 
It  eT*ii  were  doubtful  if  their  rictim  knew. 
Hibre  is  a  war,  a  chaos  of  the  mmd. 
When  all  its  eleinents  convulsed — combined* 
Lie  dark  and  jarring  with  perturbed  force, 
And  gnashing  with  impenttont  Remorse ; 
That  juggling  fiend — ^who  nerer  spake  before— 
But  ciiee  <*  I  wam'd  thee  !*'  when  the  deed  is  o'er. 
Vain  voice !  the  spirit  burning  but  unbent, 
May  writhe — rebel — the  weuL  alone  repent ! 
EVn  in  that  lonely  hour  when  most  it  feels, 
And,  to  itself,  all--all  that  self  reveals, 
No  single  passion,  and  no  ruling  thought 
That  leaves  the  rest  as  once  unseen,  unsought ; 
But  the  wikl  prospect  when  the  soid  reviews- 
All  rudiing  through  their  thousand  avenues, 
Ambition's  dreams  expiring,  k>ve*s  regret. 
Endangered  glory,  life  itseU;  beset ; 
The  joy  untasted,  the  oontompt  or  hato 
'Gkunst  those  who  fain  would  triumph  in  our  fate ; 
Hie  hopelesB  past,  the  hasting  future  driven 
Too  quickly  on  to  guess  if  hell  or  heaven ; 
Deeds,  thoughts,  and  words,  perhaps  remember'd  not 
So  keenly  tiU  that  hour,  but  ne'er  for^t ; 
Tilings  light  or  lovely  in  their  acted  time. 
But  now  to  stem  reflection  each^  crime ; 
The  withering  sense  of  evil  unreveal'd. 
Not  cankering  less  because  the  more  conceai'd— 
An,  in  a  wora,  from  which  all  eyes  must  start, 
That  opening  sepulchre — the  naJied  heart 
Bares  with  its  buried  woes,  till  Pride  awake, 
To  ouUch  the  mirror  from  the  soul — and  break. 
Ay — Pride  can  veil,  and  Courage  brave  it  all, 
AU — all-^fore — beyond — the  deadliest  fall 
Each  has  some  fear,  and  he  who  least  betrays, 
The  only  hypocrite  deserving  praise : 
Not  the  loud  recreant  wretch  who  boasts  and  flies ; 
But  he  who  looks  on  death — and  silent  dies. 
So  steelM  by  pondering  o'er  his  far  career. 
He  half-way  meets  him  should  he  menace  near 

XL 

In  the  high  chamber  of  his  highest  tower 
Sato  Conrad,  fettor'd  in  the  Pacha's  power. 
His  palace  perish'd  in  the  flame — this  fort 
Contained  at  once  his  captive  and  his  court 
Not  much  could  Conrad  of  his  sentence  blame. 
His  foe,  if  vanquish'd,  had  but  shared  the  same : — 
Alone  he  sate— in  solitude  had  scann'd 
His  guilty  bosom,  but  that  breast  he  mann'd . 
One  thought  alone  he  could  not — dared  not  meet-— 
**  CNi,  how  these  tidmgs  will  Medora  greet  ?" 
Hien— only  then — his  clanking  han£  he  raised. 
And  strain'd  with  rage  the  chain  on  which  he  gaxed: 
But  soon  he  found— or  feign'd— or  dream'd  relief, 
And  smiled  in  self-derision  of  his  grief, 
"  And  now  come  to'^ure  when  it  will— or  may 
More  need  of  rest  to  nerve  me  for  the  day !" 
Thk  said,  witli  languor  to  his  mat  he  crept, 
And,  whatsoe'er  his  visions,  quickly  slept 
'Twas  hardly  midnight  when  that  fray  begun, 
For  Conrad's  plans  matured,  at  once  were  done : 
And  Havoc  loathes  so  much  the  waste  of  time. 
She  scarce  had  left  an  uncommitted  crime. 
One  hour  beheld  him  since  the  tide  he  stemm'd — 
DiigUBed  —  disoovei'd  —  conquering  —  to'en  —  con- 
demned— 
A  chief  on  land — an  outlaw  on  the  deep — 
Destroymg — saving — prison'd — and  asleep ! 


xn. 

He  slept  in  calmest  seeming^— for  his  breath 
Was  hush'd  so  deep— Ah !  happy  if  in  death ! 
He  slept — Who  o'er  his  placid  slumber  bends  7 
His  foes  are  gone.— and  here  he  hath  no  friends ; 
Is  it  some  seraph  sent  to  grant  him  grace  7 
No,  'tis  an  earthly  form  with  heave^y  face  I 
Its  white  arm  raised  a  lamp — ^yet  gently  hid. 
Lest  the  ray  flash  abruptly  on  the  lid 
Of  that  closed  eye,  which  opens  but  to  pain. 
And  once  unclosed — but  once  may  close  again. 
That  form,  with  eye  so  dark,  and  cheek  so  fair. 
And  auburn  waves  of  gemm'd  and  braided  hair; 
With  shape  of  foiry  li^tneoB — naked  foot. 
That  shines  like  snow,  and  falls  on  earth  as  mute- 
Through  guards  and  dunnest  night  how  came  it  there? 
Ah !  rather  ask  what  will  not  "■xxuan  dare? 
Whom  youth  and  pity  lead  Uke  thee,  Gulnare ! 
She  codd  not  sleep — and  while  the  Pacha's  rest 
In  muttering  dreams  yet  saw  his  pirate-guest. 
She  left  his  side — his  signet-ring  die  bore. 
Which  oft  in  sport  adom'd  her  hand  before— 
And  with  it,  scarcely  question'd,  won  her  way 
Through  drowsy  flruards  that  must  that  sign  obey. 
Worn  out  with  toil,  and  tired  with  changmg  blows, 
Their  eyes  had  envied  Conrad  his  repose ; 
And  chill  and  nodding  at  the  turret  door. 
They  stretoh  their  listless  lunbs,  and  watoh  no  more : 
Just  raised  their  heads  to  hail  the  signet-ring, 
Nor  ask  or  what  or  who  the  sign  may  bring. 


XIIL 

She  gaxed  in  wonder,  "  Can  he  cahnly  sleep. 
While  other  eyes  his  fall  or  ravage  weep  ? 
And  mine  in  restlessness  are  wandering  here— 
What  sudden  spell  hath  made  this  man  so  dear? 
Truo— 'tis  to  him  my  life,  and  more,  I  owe. 
And  me  and  mine  he  spared  from  worse  than  wo: 
'TIS  late  to  think — but  soft^ — his  slumber  breaks — 
How  heavily  he  sighs ! — he  starts — awakes !" 


He  raised  his  head — and  dazzled  with  the  light. 

His  eye  seem'd  dubious  if  it  saw  aright : 

He  moved  his  hand — the  grating  of  his  chain 

Too  harshly  told  him  that  he  lived  again. 

«  What  is  that  form  ?  if  not  a  shape  of  air, 

Methinks,  my  jailer's  face  shows  wond'rous  fair !" 


**  Pirate !  thou  know'st  me  not — but  I  am  one, 
Grateful  for  deeds  thou  hast  too  rarely  done ; 
Look  on  me — and  remember  her,  thy  hand 
Snatoh'd  from  the  flames,  and  thy  more  fearfrd  band 
I  come  through  darkness — and  I  scarce  know  why- 
Yet  not  to  hurt — I  would  not  see  thee  die." 


"  If  so,  kind  lady !  thine  the  only  eye 

That  would  not  here  m  that  gay  hope  delist: 

Theirs  is  the  chance — and  let  them  use  their  right 

But  still  I  thank  their  courtesy  or  thine, 

Tliat  would  confess  me  at  so  fair  a  shrine  V* 


Strange  though  it  seem — ^yet  with  eztremest  grief 
Is  Imk'd  a  mirth — it  doth  not  bring  relief — 
That  playfulness  of  Sorrow  ne'er  beguiles. 
And  smiles  m  bittomess — ^but  still  it  smiles ; 


no 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  n. 


And  sometimes  with  the  wisest  and  the  best, 
Till  erven  the  8caffi)ld*  echoes  with  their  jest ! 
Yet  not  the  joy  to  which  it  seems  akin — 
It  may  deceive  all  hearts,  save  that  withm. 
Whatever  it  was  that  flash *d  on  Conrad,  now 
A  laiij^hing  wildness  half  unbent  his  brow : 
Ana  these  his  accents  had  a  sound  of  mirth, 
As  if  the  last  he  could  enjoy  on  earth ; 
Yet  'gainst  his  nature — for  through  that  short  life, 
Fev  thoughtp  hai  hd  to  spare  fro     glc*     and  strif 

xrv. 

"  Corsair !  thy  doom  is  named — but  I  have  power 

To  soothe  the  Pacha  in  his  weaker  hour. 

Thee  would  I  spare — nay  more — would  save  thee  now, 

But  this — time — hope — nor  even  thy  strength  allow ; 

But  all  I  can,  I  will :  at  least,  delay 

The  sentence  that  remits  thee  scarce  a  day. 

More  now  were  ruin — ev*n  thyself  were  loth 

The  vain  attempt  should  bring  but  doom  to  both." 

"  Yes ! — loth  indeed : — my  soul  is  nerved  to  all, 

Or  fall'u  too  low  to  fear  a  further  fall : 

Tempt  not  thyself  with  peril ;  me  with  hope, 

Of  flight  from  foes  with  whom  I  could  not  cope : 

Unfit  to  vanquish — shall  I  meanly  fly, 

The  one  of  all  my  band  that  would  not  die  7 

Yet  there  is  one — to  whom  my  memory  clings, 

Till  to  these  eyes  her  own  wild  softness  spring 

My  sole  resources  in  the  path  I  trod 

Were    these — my  bark — my  sword — my  love — my 

God! 
The  last  I  left  in  youth — he  leaves  me  now — 
And  Man  but  works  his  will  to  lay  me  low. 
I  have  no  thought  to  mock  his  throne  with  prayer 
Wrung  from  the  coward  crouching  of  despair ; 
It  is  enough — I  breathe— and  I  can  bear. 
My  sword  is  shaken  from  tlie  wortliless  hand 
That  might  have  better  kept  so  true  a  brand ; 
My  bark  is  sunk  or  captive — but  my  love — 
For  her  in  sooth  my  voice  would  mount  above : 
Oh  !  she  is  all  that  still  to  earth  can  bind — 
And  this  will  break  a  heart  so  more  than  kind, 
And  blight  a  form — till  thine  appeared,  Gulnare ! 
Mine  eye  ne'er  ask'd  if  others  were  as  fair." 

**  Thou  lov'st  another  then  ? — but  what  to  me 
Is  this — *tis  nothing — nothing  e'er  can  be : 
But  yet — thou  lov'st — and — Oh  !  I  envy  those 
Whose  hearts  on  hearts  as  faithful  can  repose. 
Who  never  feel  the  void— the  wandering  thought 
That  sighs  o'er  visions — such  as  mine  hath  wrought" 

"  Lady — methougfat  thy  love  was  his,  for  whom 
This  arm  redeem  d  thee  from  a  fiery  tomb." 

"  My  love  stem  Seyd's !  Oh — No — No — not  my  love — 

Yet  much  this  heart,  that  strives  no  more,  once  strove 

To  meet  his  passion — ^but  it  would  not  be. 

I  felt — I  feel-— love  dwells  with — ^with  the  free. 

I  am  a  slave,  a  favor'd  slave  at  best, 

To  share  his  splendor,  and  seem  very  blest ! 


>  In  Sir  Thomas  More,  for  instance,  on  the  scaffold,  and 
Anne  Bolejm,  in  the  Tower,  when,  grasping  her  neck,  she 
remarked,  that  it "  was  too  slender  to  trouble  the  heads- 
man much."    During  one  part  of  the  French  Revolution, 


Oft  must  my  soul  the  question  undergo. 

Of—*  Dost  thou  love  7*  and  bum  to  answer,  *  No  !* 

Oh !  hard  it  is  that  fondness  to  sustain. 

And  struggle  not  to  feel  averse  in  vain  ; 

But  harder  still  the  heart's  recoil  to  bear. 

And  hide  from  one— perhaps  another  there. 

He  takes  the  hand  I  give  not — nor  withhold — 

Its  pulse  nor  check'd— nor  quicken'd— calmly  cold : 

And  when  resigned,  it  drops  a  lifeless  weight 

From  one  I  never  loved  enough  to  hate. 

No  warmth  these  Ups  return  by  his  impress'd, 

And  chillM  remembrance  shudders  o'er  the  rest 

Yes — had  I  ever  proved  that  passion's  zeal. 

The  change  to  hatred  were  at  least  to  feel : 

But  still — he  goes  unmoum'd — returns  unsought — 

And  oft  when  present — absent  from  my  thought 

Or  when  reflection  comes — and  come  it  must — 

I  fear  that  henceforth  'twill  but  bring  disgust ; 

I  am  his  slave — but,  in  despite  of  pride, 

*Twere  worse  than  bondage  to  become  his  bride. 

Oh !  that  this  dotage  of  his  breast  would  cease ! 

Or  seek  another  and  give  mine  release. 

But  yesterday — I  coiud  have  said,  to  peace ! 

Yes — if  unwonted  fondness  now  I  feign, 

Remember — captive !  'tis  to  break  thy  chain ; 

Repay  the  life  Uiat  to  thy  hand  I  owe  ; 

To  give  thee  back  to  all  endeared  below, 

Who  share  such  love  as  I  can  never  know. 

Farewell — mom  breaks — and  I  must  now  away : 

'Twill  cost  me  deai^-but  dread  no  death  to-day !" 

XV. 

She  press'd  his  fetter'd  fingers  to  her  heart, 

And  bow'd  her  head,  and  tum'd  her  to  depart. 

And  noiseless  as  a  lovely  dream  is  gone. 

And  was  she  here?  and  is  he  now  alone? 

What  gem  hath  dropp'd  and  sparkles  o'er  his  chain? 

The  tear  most  sacred,  shed  for  others'  pain, 

That  starts  at  once — bright — ^pure— from  Pity's  mine. 

Already  polish'd  by  the  hand  divine ! 

Oh !  too  convincing— dangerously  deap~ 

In  woman's  eye  the  unanswerable  tear ! 

That  weapon  of  her  weakness  she  can  wield, 

To  save,  subdue — at  once  her  spear  and  shield: 

Avoid  it — Virtue  ebbs  and  Wisdom  errs. 

Too  fondly  gazing  on  that  grief  of  hers ! 

What  lost  a  worid,  and  bade  a  hero  fly  ? 

The  timid  tear  in  Cleopatra's  eye. 

Yet  be  the  soft  triumvir's  fault  forgiven ; 

By  this — how  many  lose  not  earth — ^but  heaven ! 

Consign  their  souls  to  man's  eternal  foe. 

And  seal  their  own  to  spare  some  wanton's  wa 

XVL 

*Tis  mom — and  o'er  his  alter'd  features  play 
The  beams — without  the  hope  of  yesterday. 
What  shall  he  be  ere  night?  perchance  a  thing. 
O'er  which  the  raven  flaps  her  funeral  wing, 
By  his  closed  eye  unheeded  and  unfelt ; 
While  sets  that  sun,  and  dews  of  evening  melt. 
Chill — wet — and  misty  round  each  stifiiBn'd  limb, 
Refreshing  earth — ^reviving  all  but  him ! — 


I 


it  became  a  ^bion  to  leave  some  "mot**  as  a  legacy, 
and  the  quantity  of  facetious  last  words  spok^i  during  that 
period  would  form  a  melancholy  jest-book  of  a  consider 
ablesise. 


Castto  ni. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


Ill 


THE   CORSAIR. 


OAIITO  THB  THIRO. 


**  Come  yedi^-aneor  mm  m*  abbandona.**— Bants. 


Slow  sinks,  more  lovely  ere  his  race  be  run,' 
Along  Morea*8  hills  the  Betting  sun ; 
Not,  as  in  northern  climes,  obscurely  bright, 
But  one  unclouded  blaze  of  livinff  light ! 
O'er  the  hushM  deep  the  yellow  Doam  he  throws, 
,  Gilds  thegreen  wave,  that  trembles  as  it  glows. 
I  On  old  iEigina's  rock,  and  Idra*s  isle, 
'  The  god  of  gladness  sheds  his  parting  smile  ; 
O'er  his  own  regions  lingering,  loves  to  shine, 
Though  there  his  altars  are  no  more  divine. 
Descending  fast  the  mountain  shadows  kiss 
Thy  glorious  gulf,  unconquer'd  Salamis ! 
Their  azure  arches  through  the  long  expanse 
More  deeply  purpled  meet  his  mellowing  glance. 
And  tenderest  tints,  along  their  summits  driven, 
Mark  bis  gay  course,  and  own  the  hues  of  heaven  ; 
Till,  darkly  shaded  from  the  land  and  deep, 
Behind  his  Delphian  cliff  he  sinks  to  sleep. 

On  such  an  eve,  his  palest  beam  he  cast, 
When — Athens !  here  thy  Wisest  looked  his  last 
How  watchM  thy  better  sons  his  farewell  ray, 
That  closed  their  murdered  sageV  latest  day  ! 
Not  yet — ^not  yet — Sol  pauses  on  the  hill — 
The  precious  hour  of  parting  lingers  still ; 
But  sad  his  light  to  agonizing  eyes, 
And  dark  the  mountain's  once  delightful  dyes : 
Gloom  o*er  the  lovely  land  he  seem'd  to  pour, 
The  land,  where  Phoebus  never  frown*d  before ; 
But  here  be  sank  below  Cithsron's  head, 
The  cnp  of  wo  was  quaff*d — the  spirit  fled  ; 
The  soul  of  him  who  scom'd  to  fear  or  fly — 
Who  lived  and  died,  as  none  can  live  or  die ! 

But  to !  from  high  Hymettos  to  the  plain, 
The  queen  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign.' 
No  murky  vapor,  herald  of  the  storm, 
Hides  her  fair  £&ce,  nor  girds  her  glowing  form ; 
With  cornice  glimmering  as  the  moonbeams  play, 
There  the  white  column  greets  her  grateful  ray, 
And,  bright  around  with  quivering  l:Sams  beset. 
Her  emUem  sparkles  o'er  the  minaret : 
The  grovee  of  dive  scattered  dark  and  wide 
Where  meek  Cephisus  pours  his  scanty  tide. 
The  cypress  saddening  by  the  sacred  mosque, 
Hie  gleaming  torret  ^  the  gay  kiosk,* 


*  The  opening  lines,  as  far  as  section  ii.,  have,  perhaps, 
little  bonness  Here,  and  were  annexed  to  an  unimblisbed 
(ttioQ^  printed)  poem ;  but  they  were  written  on  the  spot, 
in  the  Spring  of  1811,  and— I  scarce  know  why— the  reader 
■nut  excuse  their  appearance  here— if  he  can.  [See  jk»/, 
"Corse  of  Minerva.*! 

*  Socrates  drank  the  hemlock  a  short  time  before  sunset, 
(the  boor  of  execution,)  notwithstanding  the  entreaties  of 
his  disciples  to  wait  till  the  sun  went  down. 

'  The  twilight  in  Greece  is  much  shorter  than  in  our  own 
eooDtry :  the  days  in  winter  are  longer,  but  in  summer  of 
Aoner  duration. 

*  The  kiosk  is  a  Turkish  summer-house :  the  palm  is 
without  the  present  walls  of  Athens,  not  for  from  the  temple 
of  Theseus,  between  which  and  the  tree  the  wall  intervenes. 


And,  dnn  and  sombre  'mid  the  holy  calm. 
Near  Theseus'  fane  yon  solitary  palm, 
AU  tinged  with  varied  hues,  arrest  tlie  ey»— 
And  dull  were  his  that  pess'd  them  heedlesB  by. 

Again  the  ^gean,  heard  no  more  afiEir, 
Lulls  his  chafed  In'east  from  elemental  war ; 
111  his  waves  in  milder  tints  unfold 
leir  long  array  of  sapphire  and  of  gold, 
Mix*d  with  the  shades  of  many  a  distent  isle, 
That  frown — where  gentler  ocean  seems  to  smile.* 

IL 

Not  now  my  theme— why  turn  my  thoughts  to  thee  7 

Oh  !  who  can  look  along  thy  native  sea, 

Nor  dwell  upon  thy  name,  whatever  the  tale. 

So  much  its  magic  must  o'er  all  prevail  ? 

Who  that  beheld  that  Sun  upon  thee  set. 

Fair  Athens !  could  thine  evening  face  forge  * 

Not  he — whose  heart  nor  time  nor  distance  frees, 

Spell-bomid  within  the  clustering  Cyclades ! 

Nor  seems  this  homage  foreign  to  his  strain, 

His  Corsair's  isle  was  once  thine  own  domain — 

Would  that  with  freedom  it  were  thine  again ! 

III. 

The  Sun  hath  sunk — and,  darker  than  the  night, 
Sinks  with  its  beam  upon  the  beacon  height, 
Medora's  heart — ^the  third  day's  come  and  gone — 
With  it  ho  comes  not — sends  not — faithless  one ! 
The  wind  was  fair  though  light;    and  storms  were 
Last  eve  Anselmo's  bark  retum'd,  and  yet         [none. 
His  only  tidings  that  they  had  not  met ! 
Though  wild,  as  now,  far  different  were  the  tale 
Had  Conrad  waited  for  that  single  sail. 

The  night-breeze  freshens — she  that  day  had  pass'd 
In  watchmg  all  that  Hope  proclaim'd  a  mast ; 
Sadly  she  sate— on  high — Impatience  bore 
At  last  her  footsteps  to  the  midnight  shore, 
And  there  she  wander'd,  heedless  of  the  spray 
That  dash'd  her  garments  oft,  and  wam'd  away : 
She  saw  not — ^felt  not  this — nor  dared  depart, 
Nor  deem'd  it  cold — her  chill  was  at  her  heart ; 
Till  grew  such  certainty  from  that  suspense— 
His  very  sight  had  shock'd  from  life  or  sense ! 

It  came  at  last — a  sad  and  shatter'd  boat. 

Whose  mmates  first  beheld  whom  first  they  sought ; 

Some  bleeding — all  most  wretched — these  the  few — 

Scarce  knew  they  how  escaped — this  all  they  knew. 

In  silence,  darkling,  each  appeared  to  wait 

His  fellow's  mournful  guess  at  Conrad's  fate : 

Somethmg  they  would  have  said  ;  but  seem'd  to  fear 

To  trust  their  accents  to  Medora's  car. 

She  saw  at  once,  yet  sunk  not — trembled  not — 

Beneath  that  grief,  that  loneliness  of  lot, 


—Cephisus*  stream  is  indeed  scanty,  and  Ilissus  has  no 
stream  at  all. 

•  [Of  the  brilliant  skies  and  variegated  landscapes  of 
Greece  every  one  has  formed  to  himself  a  general  notion, 
from  having  contemplated  them  through  the  hazy  atmo- 
sphere of  som^  prose  narration ;  but,  in  Lord  Byron's  poetry, 
every  image  is  distinct  and  glowing,  as  if  it  were  illumina- 
ted by  its  native  sunshine ;  and,  in  the  figures  which  people 
the  landscape,  we  behold  not  only  the  general  form  and 
costume,  but  the  countenance,  and  the  attitude,  and  the 
play  of  features  and  of  gesture  accompanying,  and  indi- 
cating, the  sudden  impuuies  of  momentary  feelings.  The 
magic  of  coloring  by  which  this  is  effected  is,  perhaps,  the 
most  striking  svidence  of  Lord  Byron's  talent.— Gboboi 
Ellis.] 


112 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  m. 


Within  that  meek  £ur  fom,  were  feeUnge  high, 

That  deem'd  not  till  they  found  their  energy* 

While   yet   was   Hope —they   solten'd— flatter'd— 

wept — 
All  lost — that  eoftnesB  died  not — but  it  slept ; 
And  o'er^ts  slumber  rose  that  Strength  which  said, 
"With    nothing    left   to    love — there's   naught   to 

dread.^* 
"Tis  more  than  nature's ;  like  the  burning  might 
Delirium  gathers  from  the  fever's  height 

"  Silent  you  stand — ^nor  would  I  hear  you  tell 
What — speak  not — breathe  not — ^for  I  know  it  well — 
Yet  would  I  ask — almost  my  lip  denies 
The— quick  your  answer — tell  me  where  he  lies." 

"  Lady !  we  know  not — scarce  with  life  wo  fled ; 

But  here  is  one  denies  that  he  is  dead : 

He  saw  him  bound ;  and  bleeding — but  alive." 


She  heard  no  further — ^'twas  in  vain  to 
So  throbb'd  each  vein— each  thought — till  then  with- 
stood; 
Her  own  dark  soul — these  words  at  once  subdued  * 
She  totters — ^falls — and  senseless  had  the  wave 
Perchance  but  snatch'd  her  from  another  grave ; 
But  that  with  hands  thou^  rude,  yet  weeping  eyes. 
They  yield  such  aid  as  I^ty's  haste  supplies : 
Dash  o'er  her  deathlike  cheek  the  ocean  dew, 
Raise— fan — sustain — ^till  life  returns  anew ; 
Awake  her  handmaids,  with  the  matrons  leave 
That  fainting  form  o'er  which  they  gaze  and  grieve 
Then  seek  Anselmo's  cavern,  to  report 
The  tale  too  tedious — when  the  triumph  short 

IV. 

In  that  wild  council  words  waz'd  warm  and  strange. 
With  thoughts  of  ransom,  rescue,  and  revenge ; 
All,  save  repose  or  flight :  still  lingering  there 
Breathed  Conrad's  spirit,  and  foriMide  deqicur ; 
Whate'er  his  fate— the  breasts  he  form'd  and  led. 
Will  save  him  living,  or  appease  him  dead. 
Wo  to  his  foes !  there  yet  survive  a  few, 
Whose  deeds  are  darmg,  as  their  hearts  are  trae. 


Within  the  Harem's  secret  chamber  sate^ 

Stem  Seyd,  still  pondering  o'er  his  Captive's  fate ; 

His  thoughts  on  love  and  nate  alternate  dwell. 

Now  with  Gulnare,  and  now  m  Conrad's  cell ; 

Here  at  his  feet  the  lovelv  slave  reclined 

Surveys  his  brow — ^would  soothe  his  gloom  of  mind ; 

While  many  an  anxiom  glance  her  large  dark  eye 

Sends  in  its  idle  search  for  sympathy. 

His  only  bends  in  seeming  o'er  his  herds,* 

But  mly  views  his  victim  as  he  bleeds. 

"  Pacha !  the  day  is  thine ;  and  on  thy  crest 
Sits  Triumph — Conrad  taken — fall'n  the  rest ! 
His  doom  is  fix'd — he  dies :  and  well  his  fate 
Was  eam'd — ^yet  much  too  worthless  for  thy  hate: 
Methiuks,  a  short  release,  for  ransom  told 
With  all  his  treasure,  not  unwisely  sold ; 
Report  speaks  largely  of  his  pirate-hoard — 
Would  that  of  this  my  Pacha  were  the  loid ! 


I  [The  whole  of  this  section  was  added  in  the  coarse  of 

pTJnting,] 


Whae  baffled,  weaken'd  by  this  fatal  fray— 
Watch'd — foUow'd — he  were  then  an  easier  prey ; 
But  once  cut  ofi^the  remnant  of  his  band 
Embark  their  wealth,  and  seek  a  safer  strand." 


"  Gulnare ! — if  for  each  drop  of  blood  a  gem 

Were  ofi'er'd  rich  as  Stamboul's  diadem ; 

If  for  each  hair  of  his  a  massy  mine 

Of  virgin  ore  should  supplicating  shine ; 

If  all  our  Arab  tales  divulge  or  dream 

Of  wealth  were  here — ^that  gold  should  not  redeem ! 

It  had  not  now  redeem'd  a  single  hour ; 

But  that  I  know  him  fetter'd,  m  my  power ; 

And,  thirsting  for  revenge,  I  ponder  still 

On  pangs  that  longest  ruck,  and  latest  kill." 


"  Nay,  Seyd ! — ^I  seek  not  to  restrain  thy  rage, 
Too  justly  moved  for  mercy  to  assuage ; 
My  thoughts  were  only  to  secure  for  thee 
His  riches — thus  released,  he  were  not  firee : 
Disabled,  i^om  of  half  his  might  and  band. 
His  capture  could  but  wait  thy  first  command." 


**  His  capture  could  ! — and  shall  I  then  resign 
One  day  to  him — ^the  wretch  already  mine  f 
Release  my  foe ! — at  whose  remonstrance  7 — thine ! 
Fair  suitor  I — to  thy  virtuous  gratitude, 
That  thus  repays  this  Giaour's  relenUng  mood, 
Which  thee  and  thine  alone  of  all  could  spare. 
No  doubt — regardless  if  the  prize  were  fair. 
My  thanks  and  praise  alike  are  due — ^now  hear! 
I  have  a  counsel  for  thy  gentler  ear : 
I  do  mistrust  thee,  woman !  and  each  word 
Of  thine  stamps  truth  on  all  Suspicion  heard. 
Borne  in  his  arms  through  fire  from  yon  Serai- 
Say,  wert  thou  lingering  there  with  him  to  fly  7 
Thou  need'st  not  answer — ^thy  confession  speaks, 
Ahready  reddening  on  thy  guUty  cheeks ; 
Then,  lovely  dame,  bethink  thee !  and  beware : 
'Tis  not  hit  life  alone  may  claim  such  care ! 
Another  word  and — nay — I  need  no  more. 
Accursed  was  the  moment  when  he  bore 
Thee  from  the  flames,  which  bettor  far — ^but — ^no— 
I  then  had  moum'd  thee  with  a  lover's  wo— 
Now  'tis  thy  lord  that  warns — deceitful  thmg ! 
Know'st  thou  that  I  can  clip  thy  wanton  wing? 
In  words  alone  I  am  not  wont  to  chafe : 
Look  to  thyself— nor  deem  thy  frdsehood  safe !" 

He  rose— «nd  slowly,  sternly  thence  withdrew, 
Rage  m  his  eye  and  threats  in  his  adieu : 
Ah !  little  reok'd  that  chief  of  womanhood— 
Which  frowns  ne'er  quell'd,  nor  menaces  subdued ; 
And  little  deem'd  he  what  thy  heart,  Gulnare ! 
When  soft  could  feel,  and  when  incensed  could  dare. 
His  doubts  appear'd  to  wrong — ^nor  yet  she  knew 
How  deep  the  root  from  whence  ctanpaaaion  grew-* 
She  was  a  slave — ^from  such  may  c^ytives  claim 
A  fellow-feeling,  differing  but  hi  name ; 
Still  half  unconscious — heedless  of  his  wrath, 
Again  she  ventured  on  the  dangerous  path, 
iA^ain  his  rage  repell'd — until  arose 
That  strife  of  thought,  the  soiooe  of  woman's  woee ! 


i  The  comboloio,  or  Mahometan  rosary ;  the  beads  are  in 
number  ninety-nine. 


Canto  in. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


118 


VL 

MeaBwliile — long  anxioDB — ^weary — atill — the  same 

RoU*d  day  and  night — his  aoul  could  never  tame — 

This  feaiiul  inteiva)  of  doubt  and  dread, 

Wlien  every  hour  might  doom  hun  worse  than  dead, 

When  every  step  that  echoed  by  the  gate 

Might  entering  lead  where  axe  and  stake  await ; 

When  every  voice  that  grated  on  his  ear 

Might  be  the  last  that  he  could  ever  hear ; 

Could  terror  tame— that  spirit  stem  and  liigh 

Had  proved  unwilling  as  unfit  to  die  ; 

Twas  worn — perhaps  decay'd — yet  silent  bore 

Tliat  conflict,  deadlier  far  than  all  before : 

TTie  heat  of  fight,  the  hurry  of  the  gale, 

Leave  scarce  one  thought  inert  enough  to  quail ; 

But  bound  and  fix'd  m  fetter'd  solitude. 

To  pine,  the  prey  of  every  changing  mood ; 

To  gaze  on  thine  own  heart*;  and  meditate 

Irrevocable  faults,  and  coming  fate — 

Too  late  the  last  to  shun — the  fint  to  mend — 

To  count  the  hours  that  struggle  to  thine  end. 

With  not  a  friend  to  animate,  and  teU 

To  other  ears  that  death  became  thee  well ; 

Around  thee  foes  to  forge  the  ready  lie. 

And  blot  life*8  latest  scene  with  calumny  ; 

Before  thee  tortures,  which  the  soul  can  dare. 

Yet  doubts  how  well  the  shrinking  flesh  may  bear; 

But  deeply  feels  a  single  cry  would  shame, 

To  valor*s  praise  thy  last  and  dearest  claim ; 

The  life  thou  leaVst  below,  denied  above 

By  kind  monopolists  of  heavenly  love  ; 

And  more  than  doubtful  paradise — thy  heaven 

CM"  earthly  hope — thy  loved  one  from  thee  riven. 

Such  were  the  thoughts  that  outlaw  must  sustain, 

And  govern  pangs  surpassing  mortal  pain: 

And  Uioee  sustained  he— boots  it  well  or  ill  7 

^jince  not  to  sink  beneath,  is  something  still ! 

VII. 

The  first  day  pass'd — he  saw  not  her — Gulnare — 

The  second — third — and  still  she  came  not  there ; 

But  what  her  words  avouched,  her  charms  had  done. 

Or  else  he  had  not  seen  another  sun. 

The  fourth  day  roll'd  along,  and  with  the  night 

Came  storm  and  darkness  in  their  mingling  might : 

Oh  !  how  he  listened  to  the  rushing  deep, 

That  ne'er  till  now  so  broke  upon  his  sleep ; 

And  his  wild  spirit  wilder  wishes  sent, 

Roused  by  the  roar  of  his  own  element ! 

Oft  had  he  ridden  on  that  winged  wave. 

And  loved  its  roughness  for  the  speed  it  gave  ; 

And  now  its  dashing  echo'd  on  his  ear, 

A  long-known  voice-— alas!  too  vahily  near ! 

Loud  sung  the  wind  above ;  and,  doubly  loud, 

Shook  o'er  his  turret  cell  the  thunder-cloud  ; 

And  flashed  the  li|;fatning  by  the  latticed  bar, 

To  him  more  gemal  than  the  midnight  star : 

Close  to  the  glimmering  grate  he  dragged  his  chain, 

And  hoped  that  peril  might  not  prove  in  vain. 


•  t"  By  the  way— I  have  a  charge  against  you.    As  the 
BTeat  Mr    Dennis  roared  out  on  a  similar  occasion,  <By 
G— d,  thit  IS  my  thunder !'— so  do  I  exclaim,  ^Tlnt  is  fw 
lightning  "  I  allude  to  a  speech  of  Ivan's,  in  the  scene  with 
Petrown-i  nud  the  Empress,  where  the  thought,  and  almost  i 
expression,  are  similar  to  Conrad's  in  the  tlurd  canto  of  the  I 
•  Corsair/   I,  however,  do  not  say  this  to  accuse  you,  but  to  ' 
except  my5elf  from  stispicion ;  as  there  is  a  priority  of  six  ' 
months*  publication  on  my  part,  between  the  appearance  of 
ttet  composition  and  of  your  tragedies.**— Lord  Byron  to 


15 


He  raised  his  iron  hand  to  Heaven,  and  pray'd 
One  pitying  flash  to  mar  the  form  it  made:^ 
His  steel  and  impious  prayer  attract  alike— 
The  storm  roird  onward,  and  disdained  to  strike ; 
Its  peal  waxM  lainter — ceased-^e  felt  alone. 
As  if  some  faithless  friend  had  spnm'd  his  groan ! 

VIIL 

The  midnight  pass'd — and  to  the  massy  do6r 
A  hght  step  came— it  paused — it  moved  once  more ; 
Slow  turns  the  grating  bolt  and  sullen  key : 
*Ti8  as  his  heart  foreboded — that  fair  she ! 
Whatever  her  sins,  to  him  a  guardian  saint. 
And  beauteous  still  as  hermit's  hope  can  paint ; 
Yet  changed  since  last  within  that  cell  she  came, 
More  pale  her  cheek,  more  tremulous  her  frame : 
On  him  she  cast  her  dark  and  hurried  eye, 
Which  spoke  before  her  accents — "  Thou  must  die ! 
Yes,  thou  must  die — there  is  but  one  resoimse. 
The  last — the  worst — ^if  torture  were  not  worse." 

"  Lady !  I  look  to  none— my  lips  proclaim 
What  last  proclaim'd  they — Conrad  still  the  same : 
Whv  shouldst  thou  seek  an  outlaw's  life  to  spare. 
And  change  the  sentence  I  deserve  to  bear? 
Well  have  I  eam'd — nor  here  alone— the  meed 
Of  Seyd's  revenge,  by  many  a  lawless  deed." 

"  Wliy  riionld  I  seek?  because — Oh  !  didst  thou  not 
Redeem  my  life  from  worse  than  slavery's  lot  ? 
Why  should  I  seek  ? — hath  misery  made  thee  blind 
To  the  fond  workings  of  a  woman's  muid? 
And  must  I  say?  albeit  my  heart  rebel 
With  all  that  woman  feels,  but  should  not  tell — 
Because — despite  thy  crimes — that  heart  is  moved : 
It  fear'd  thee — thank'd  thee — pitied — madden'd— 

loved 
Reply  not,  tell  not  now  thy  tale  again. 
Thou  loyst  another — and  I  love  in  vain  ; 
Though  fond  as  mine  her  bosom,  fonn  more  fair, 
I  rush  through  peril  which  she  would  not  dare. 
If  that  thy  heart  to  here  were  truly  dear. 
Were  I  thine  own — thou  wert  not  lonely  here : 
An  outlaw's  spouse — and  leave  her  lord  to  roam ! 
What  hath  such  gentle  dame  to  do  with  home? 
But  speak  not  now— o'er  thme  and  o'er  my  head 
Hangs  the  keen  sabre  by  a  single  thread ; 
If  thou  hast  courage  still,  and  wouldst  be  free, 
Receive  this  poniarid — rise — and  follow  me !" 

"  Ay — m  my  chauis !  my  steps  will  gently  tread, 
With  these  adornments,  o'er  each  slumbering  head  I 
Thou  hast  forgot — is  this  a  gari>  for  flight  ? 
Or  is  that  mstrument  more  fit  for  fight?" 

**  Misdoubting  Corsair !  I  have  gain'd  the  guard. 
Ripe  for  revolt,  and  greedy  for  reward. 
A  single  word  of  mine  removes  that  chain : 
Without  some  aid  how  here  could  I  remain  ? 


Mr.  Solheby,  Sept.  25, 1815.— The  following  are  the  lines  in 
Mr.  Sotheby's  tragedy  :— 


*  And  I  hare  leapt 


In  transport  from  my  flinty  couch,  to  welcome 
The  thunder  as  it  burst  tfpon  my  roof ; 
And  beckoned  to  the  lightning,  as  it  flashed 
And  sparkled  on  these  fetters.** 

Notwithstanding  Lord  Byron's  precaution,  the  coinckienoe 
in  question  was  cited  against  mm,  some  years  after,  in  a 
penodical  journal.] 


114 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  hi. 


Well,  wnce  we  met,  hath  sped  my  busy  time, 
If  in  aught  evil,  for  thy  sake  the  crime : 
The  crime — ^*ti8  none  to  punish  those  of  Seyd. 
:  Tliat  hated  tyrant,  Conrad — he  must  bleed  ! 

I  see  thee  shudder— but  my  soul  is  chan|2;ed — 
j  Wrong*d,  spum'd,  reyiled-^and  it  shall  be  ayenf^ed — 

Accu8e<l  of  what  till  now  my  heart  disdain*d — 
'  Too  faithful,  though  to  bitter  bondage  chain'd. 
,  Yes,  smile ! — but  he  had  little  cause  to  sneer, 
.   I  was  not  treacherous  then — nor  thou  too  dear : 
I   But  he  has  said  it — and  the  jealous  well, 
,  Those  tyrants,  teasing,  tempting  to  rebel, 
[   Deserve  the  fate  their  fretting  lips  foretell 
'   I  never  loved — he  bought  me — somewhat  high — 

Since  with  me  came  a  heart  he  could  not  buy. 
I   I  was  a  slave  unmurmuring :  he  hath  said, 
I  But  for  his  rescue  I  with  thee  had  fled. 
'  *Twas  false  thou  know'st — but  let  such  augura  rue, 

•  Their  words  are  omens  Insult  renders  true. 

j  Nor  was  thy  respite  granted  to  my  prayer ; 
J  This  fleeting  grace  was  only  to  prepare 
I   New  torments  for  thy  life,  and  my  despair. 

Mine  too  he  threatens ;  but  his  dotage  still 
I    Would  fain  reserve  me  for  his  lordly  will : 

When  wearier  of  these  fleeting  charms  and  me, 
,  There  yawns  the  sack — and  yonder  rolls  the  sea ! 
{   What,  am  I  then  a  toy  for  dotard's  play, 

To  wear  but  till  the  gilding  frets  away  7 

I  saw  thee — loved  thee— owe  thee  all — ^would  save, 
,   If  but  to  show  how  grateful  is  a  slave. 
i   But  had  he  not  thus  menaced  fame  and  life, 
I   (And  well  he  keeps  bis  oaths  pronounced  in  strife,) 
j   I  still  had  saved  thee — ^but  the  Pacha  spared. 

Now  I  am  all  thine  own — for  all  prepared : 

Thou  lov*st  me  not — nor  know'st — or  but  the  worst 
I   Alas  !  this  love — that  hatred  are  the  first — 
<  Oh !  couldst  thou  prove  my  truth,  thou  wouldst  not 

start, 
.  Nor  fear  the  fire  that  lights  an  Eastern  heart ; 

'Tis  now  the  beacon  of  thy  safety — ^now 
,  It  pouits  within  the  port  a  Mainote  prow : 
I   But  in  one  chamber,  where  our  path  must  lead, 

•  There  sleeps — ^he  must  not  wake— the  oppressor  Seyd !" 


"  Gnlnare — Gnlnare— I  never  felt  till  now 
I   My  abject  fortune,  withered  fame  so  low : 
;  Seyd  is  mine  enemy :  had  swept  my  band 

From  earth  with  mthleas  but  with  open  hand, 

And  therefore  came  I,  in  my  baiic  of  WaT, 
I  To  smite  the  smiter  with  a  scimitar ; 

Such  is  my  weapon — ^not  the  secret  knife — 

Who  spares  a  woman's  seeks  not  slumber's  life. 
'  Thine  saved  I  gladly,  Lady,  not  for  this — 

Let  me  not  deem  that  mercy  shown  amiss. 
I  Now  fare  thee  well — more  peace  be  with  thy  breast  I 

Night  wears  apace— my  last  of  earthly  rest !" 


'<  Rest !  rest !  by  sunrise  must  thy  sinews  shake, 
And  thy  limbs  writhe  around  the  ready  stake. 
I  heard  the  order— saw — I  will  not  see — 
If  thou  wilt  perish,  I  will  fall  with  thee. 
My  life — ^my  love— my  hatred — all  below 
Are  on  this  cast — Corsair !  'tis  but  a  blow ! 
Without  it  flight  were  idle— how  evade 
His  sure  pnrsuit?  my  wrongs  too  unrepaid. 
My  youth  dismced— the  long,  long  wasted  yean, 
One  Mow  sfaafl  cancel  with  oar  future  fean ; 


But  since  the  dagger  suits  thee  less  than  brand, 

111  try  the  firmness  of  a  female  hand. 

The  guards  are  gam*d— one  moment  all  were  o^er-~ 

Corsair  !  we  meet  m  safety  or  no  more ; 

If  errs  my  feeble  hand,  the  morning  cloud 

Will  hover  o'er  thy  scafiS)ld,  and  my  shroud 


IX. 

She  tum'd,  and  vani^'d  ere  he  could  reply, 

But  his  glance  follow'd  far  with  eager  eye  ; 

And  gathering,  as  he  could,  the  links  that  bound 

His  form,  to  curi  their  length,  and  curb  their  sound, 

Since  bar  and  bolt  no  more  his  steps  preclude, 

He,  fast  as  fetter'd  limbs  allow,  pursued. 

'Twas  dark  and  winding,  and  he  knew  not  where 

That  passage  led ;  nor  lamp  nor  guard  were  there : 

He  sees  a  dusky  glimmering — diall  he  seek 

Or  shun  that  ray  so  indistinct  and  weak  ? 

Chance  guides  his  steps — a  freshness  seems  to  bear 

Full  on  his  brow,  as  if  from  morning  air — 

He  reach'd  an  open  gallery— on  his  eye 

Gleam'd  the  last  star  of  night,  the  clearing  sky : 

Yet  scarcely  heeded  these — another  light 

From  a  lone  chamber  struck  upon  his  sight 

Towards  it  he  moved ;  a  scarcely  closing  door 

Reveal'd  the  ray  vrithin,  but  nothing  more. 

With  hasty  step  a  figure  outward  pass'd, 

Hien  paused — and  tum'd — and  paused — 'tis  She  at 

last! 
No  poniard  in  that  hand — ^nor  sign  of  ill — 
"  Thanks  to  that  softening  heart— ^e  could  not  kill !" 
Again  he  look'd,  the  wildneas  of  her  eye 
Starts  from  the  day  abrupt  and  fearfully. 
She  stopp'd— threw  back  her  dark  far-floating  hair. 
That  neariy  veil'd  her  face  and  bosom  fair : 
As  if  she  late  had  bent  her  leaning  head 
Above  some  object  of  her  doubt  or  dread. 
They  meet — upon  her  brow — ^unknown — ^forgot — 
Her  hurrying  hand  had  left — 'twas  but  a  f^x»t— 
Its  hue  was  all  he  saw,  and  scarce  withstood — 
Oh  !  slight  but  certain  pledge  of  crime — 'tis  blood ! 


X. 

He  had  seen  battle — he  had  brooded  lone 

O'er  promised  pangs  to  sentenced  guilt  foreshown  ; 

He  had  been  tempted— chasten'd — and  the  chain 

Yet  on  his  arms  might  ever  there  remain : 

But  ne'er  from  strife — captivity — ^remorse — 

From  all  his  feelings  in  their  inmost  force — 

So  tlirill'd — so  shudder'd  every  creepmg  vein. 

As  now  they  froze  before  that  purple  stain. 

That  spot  of  blood,  that  light  but  guilty  streak. 

Had  banish'd  all  the  beauty  from  her  cheek ! 

Blood  he  had  view'd — could  view  unmoved — ^but  then 

It  flow'd  in  combat,  or  was  shed  by  men ! 


XI. 

"  Tis  done«-he  ne&riy  waked— but  it  is  done. 
Coreair !  he  perish'd — ^thou  art  deariy  won. 
All  words  would  now  be  vain — away — away ! 
Our  bariL  is  tossing — ^'tis  abeady  day. 
The  few  gain'd  over,  now  are  wholly  mine. 
And  these  thy  yet  surviving  band  shall  join : 
Anon  my  voice  shall  vindicate  mv  hand. 
When  once  our  sail  forsakes  this  nated  strand." 


Canto  iu. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


115 


I 


XIL 

She  clapp*d  her  hands — and  througrh  the  gallery  pour, 
Equipped  for  flight,  her  vaasals — Greek  and  Moor ; 
Silent  but  quick  they  stoop,  his  chains  unbind  ; 
Once  more  his  limbs  are  free  as  mountain  wind ! 
But  on  his  heavy  heart  such  sadness  sate, 
As  if  they  there  transferred  that  iron  weight 
No  words  are  utter'd — at  her  sign,  a  door 
Rf-vals  the  secret  passage  to  the  shore ; 
The  city  lies  behind — ^they  speed,  they  reach 
The  glad  waves  dancing  on  the  yellow  beach ; 
And  Conrad  following,  at  her  beck,  obey'd, 
Nor  cared  he  now  if  rescued  or.betray*d ; 
Resistance  were  as  useless  as  if  Seyd 
Yet  lived  to  view  the  doom  his  ire  decreed. 

XIIL 

Embark'd,  the  sail  unfurl'd,  the  light  breeze  blew — 
How  much  had  Conrad's  memory  to  review ! 
Sunk  he  in  Contemplation,  till  the  cape 
Where  last  he  anchored  rear'd  its  giant  shape. 
Ah  !— «ince  that  fatal  night,  though  brief  the  time, 
Had  swept  an  age  of  terror,  grief,  and  crime. 
As  its  far  shadow  frown*d  above  the  mast, 
He  veil'd  his  face,  and  sorrowed  as  he  peas'd ; 
He  thought  of  all — Gonsalvo  and  his  band, 
His  fleeting  triumph,  and  his  failing  hand ; 
He  thought  on  her  afar,  his  lonely  bride : 
He  tum'd  and  saw — Gulnare,  the  homicide ! 

XIV. 

She  watch'd  his  features  till  she  could  not  bear 
Their  freezing  aq)ect  and  averted  air, 
And  that  strange  fierceness  foreign  to  her  eye, 
Fell  quench'd  iu  tears,  too  late  to  shed  or  dry. 
She  knelt  beside  him  and  his  hand  she  press  d, 
"  Thou  mayst  forgive  though  Allah's  self  detest ; 
But  for  that  deed  of  darkness  what  wert  thou  7 
Reproach  me — but  not  yet — Oh  !  spare  me  now  ! 
I  am  not  what  I  8eem--this  fearful  night 
My  brain  bewilder'd — do  not  madden  quite ! 
If  I  had  never  loved — though  less  my  guilt, 
Thou  hadst  not  lived  to — hate  me— if  thou  wilt" 

XV. 

She  wrongs  his  thoughts,  they  more  himself  upbraid 

Than  her,  though  undesigned,  the  wretch  he  made  ; 

But  speechless  all,  deep^  dark,  and  unezpressed, 

They  bleed  within  that  silent  cell — ^his  breast 

Still  onward,  fair  the  breeze,  nor  rough  the  surge, 

llie  blue  waves  sport  around  the  stem  they  urge ; 

Far  on  the  horizon's  verge  appears  a  speck, 

A  spot — a  mast — a  sail — an  armed  deck  I 

Their  little  bark  her  men  of  watch  descry, 

And  ampler  canvass  woos  the  wind  from  high ; 

She  bears  her  down  majestically  near, 

Speed  on  her  prow,  and  terror  in  her  tier ; 

A  flash  is  seen — the  ball  beyond  their  bow 

Booms  harmless,  hissing  to  the  deep  below. 

Up  rose  keen  Conrad  from  his  silent  trance, 

A  kmg,  long  absent  gladness  in  his  glance  ; 

"  nis  mine-— my  blood-red  flag !  again — again — 

I  am  not  all  deserted  on  the  main ! 

They  own  the  signal,  answer  to  the  hail. 

Hoist  out  the  boat  at  once,  and  slacken  sail 

**  Tm  Conrad !  Conrad !"  shouting  from  the  deck. 

Command  nor  duty  could  their  transport  check ! 


>  V I  have  added  a  section  for  GtOnore,  to  fill  up  the  part 
mg ,  lad  dismiss  her  mori.  vsremoniously.  If  Mr.  OifTord  or 


With  B^t  alacrity  and  gaze  of  pride. 

They  view  him  mount  once  more  his  vessel's  side ; 

A  smile  relaxing  in  each  rugged  face, 

Their  arms  can  scarce  forbear  a  rough  embrace. 

He,  half  forgetting  danger  and  defeat. 

Returns  their  greeting  as  a  chief  may  greet. 

Wrings  with  a  cordial  grasp  Anselmo's  hand. 

And  feels  he  yet  can  conquer  and  command ! 

XVI. 

These  greetings  o'er,  the  feelings  that  o'erflow. 
Yet  grieve  to  win  him  back  without  a  blow ; 
They  sail'd  prepared  for  vengeance— had  they  known 
A  woman's  hand  secured  that  deed  her  own. 
She  were  their  queen — lees  scrupulous  are  they 
Than  haughty  Conrad  how  they  win  their  way. 
With  many  an  asking  smile,  and  wondering  stare, 
They  whi4>er  round,  and  gaze  upon  Gulnare  ; 
And  her,  at  once  above — beneath  her  sex, 
Whom  blood  appallM  not,  their  regards  perplex. 
To  Conrad  turns  her  faint  imploring  eye, 
She  drops  her  veil,  and  stands  in  silence  by ; 
Her  arms  are  meekly  folded  on  that  breast, 
Which — Conrad  safe — ^to  fate  resign'd  the  rest 
Though  worse  than  phrensy  could  that  bosom  fill. 
Extreme  in  love  or  hate,  in  good  or  ill, 
The  worst  of  crimes  had  left  her  woman  still ! 

XVII. 

This  Conrad  mark'd,  and  felt — ah  !  could  he  less?^-* 
Hate  of  that  deed — but  grief  for  her  distress ; 
What  she  has  done  no  tears  can  wash  away. 
And  Heaven  must  punish  on  its  angry  day : 
But — it  was  done :  he  knew,  whatever  her  guilt. 
For  him  that  poniard  smote,  that  blood  was  spilt ; 
And  he  was  free ! — and  she  for  him  had  given 
Her  all  on  earth,  and  more  than  all  in  heaven ! 
And  now  he  tum'd  him  to  that  dark-eyed  slave, 
Whose  brow  was  bow'd  beneath  the  glance  he  gave. 
Who  now  seeni'd  changed  and  humbled : — ^faint  and 

meek. 
But  varying  oft  the  color  of  her  cheek 
To  deeper  shades  of  paleness — all  its  red 
That  fearful  spot  which  staiu'd  it  from  the  dead ! 
He  took  that  hand — it  trembled — now  too  late^ 
So  soft  in  love — so  wildly  nerved  in  hate ; 
He  clasp'd  that  hand — it  trembled — and  his  own 
Had  lost  its  firmness,  and  his  voice  its  tone. 
**  Gulnare !"— but  she  replied  notr— "  dear  Guhiare  !** 
She  raised  her  eye — her  only  answer  there — 
At  once  she  sought  and  sunk  in  his  embrace : 
If  he  had  driven  her  from  that  resting-plaoe. 
His  had  been  more  or  less  than  mortal  heart. 
But — good  or  ill — it  bade  her  not  depart 
Perchance,  but  for  the  bodings  of  his  breast. 
His  latest  virtue  then  had  joiu'd  the  rest 
Yet  even  Medora  might  forgive  the  kiss 
That  ask'd  from  form  so  fair  no  more  than  this. 
The  first,  the  last  that  Frailty  stole  from  Faith — 
To  lips  where  Love  had  lavished  all  his  breath, 
To  lips — ^whose  broken  sighs  such  fragrance  fling 
As  he  had  fann'd  them  freshly  with  his  wing ! 

xvm. 

They  gain  by  twilight's  hour  their  lonely  isle. 
To  them  the  very  rocks  appear  to  smile  ; 


you  dislike,  tis  but  a  »pomge  and  another  midnight**— Lo|d 
Byron  to  Bfr.  Murray,  Jan.  11, 1814.] 


116 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  m. 


The  haven  hums  with  many  a  cheering  scnmd, 

The  beacons  blaze  their  wonted  stations  round, 

The  boats  are  dartinjr  o'er  the  curly  bay, 

And  sportive  dolphins  bend  them  through  the  spray ; 

Even  the  hoarse  sea-bird's  shrill,  discordant  shriek, 

Greets  like  the  welcome  of  his  tuneless  beak ! 

Beneath  each  lamp  that  through  its  lattice  gleams, 

Their  fancy  paints  the  friends  that  trim  the  beams. 

Oh  !  what  can  sanctify  the  joys  of  home, 

Like  Hope's  gay  glance  from  Ocean's  troubled  foam  ? 

XIX. 

The  lights  are  high  on  beacon  and  from  bower. 
And  'midst  them  Conrad  seeks  Medora's  tower : 
He  looks  in  vain — ^'tis  strange— and  all  remark. 
Amid  so  many,  hers  alone  is  dark. 
'Tis  strange— of  yore  its  welcome  never  fail'd. 
Nor  now,  perchance,  extinguish'd,  only  veil'd. 
With  the  nrst  boat  descends  he  for  the  shore, 
And  looks  impatient  on  the  lingering  oar. 
Oh !  for  a  wing  beyond  the  falcon's  flight. 
To  bear  him  like  an  arrow  to  that  hei^pit ! 
With  the  first  pause  the  resting  rowers  gave. 
He  waits  not^ooks  not — leaps  mto  the  wave, 
Strives  through  the  suige,  bestrides  the  beach,  and  high 
Ascends  the  path  famuiar  to  his  eye. 

He  reach'd  his  turret  door — he  paused — ^no  sound 
Broke  from  within ;  and  all  was  night  around. 
He  knock'd,  and  loudly- — ^footstep  nor  reply 
Announced  that  any  heard  or  deem'd  him  nigh ; 
He  knock'd — ^but  faintly — for  his  trembling  hand 
Refused  to  aid  his  heavy  heart's  demand. 
The  portal  opens — 'tis  a  well-known  face — 
But  not  the  form  he  panted  to  embrace. 
Its  lips  are  silent — twice  his  own  essay'd. 
And  fail'd  to  frame  the  question  they  delay'd ; 
He  snatch'd  the  lamp — its  light  will  answer  all — 
It  quits  his  grasp,  expiring  in  the  falL 
He  would  not  wait  for  that  reviving  ray — 
As  soon  could  he  have  linger'd  there  for  day ; 
But,  glimmering  through  Uie  du^y  corridore, 
Another  checkers  o'er  the  shadowed  floor ; 
His  steps  the  chamber  gain — his  eyes  behold 
All  that  his  heart  believed  not — ^yet  foretold  I 

XX. 

He  tum'd  not — spoke  not — sunk  not — fix'd  his  look. 

And  set  the  anxious  Irame  that  lately  shook : 

Me  gazed — how  long  we  gaze  despite  of  pain. 

And  know,  but  dare  not  own,  we  gaze  in  vain ! 

In  life  itself  she  was  so  still  and  fair. 

That  death  with  gentler  aspect  wither'd  there ; 

And  the  cold  flowers*  her  colder  hand  contain'd. 

In  that  last  grasp  as  tenderly  were  strain'd 

As  if  she  scarcely  felt,  but  feign'd  a  sleep, 

And  made  it  almost  mockery  yet  to  weep : 

The  long  dark  lashes  fringed  her  lids  of  snow. 

And  veiFd— thought  shrmka  from   all   that   lurk'd 

below — 
Oh !  o'er  the  eye  Death  most  exerts  his  might, 
And  hurls  the  spirit  from  her  throne  of  light  ^ 
Sinks  those  blue  orbs  in  that  long  last  eclipse, 
But  spares,  as  yet,  the  charm  around  her  lips — 
Yet,  yet  they  seem  as  they  forebore  to  smile, 
And  wish'd  reposo— -but  only  for  a  while ; 


1 1n  the  Levant  it  is  the  custom  to  strew  flowers  on  the 
bodies  of  the  dead,  and  in  the  hands  of  young  persons  to 
place  a  nosegay 


But  the  white  diroud,  and  each  extended  trees, 
Long — ^fair — but  spread  in  utter  lifelessness. 
Which,  late  the  sport  of  every  summer  wind. 
Escaped  the  baffled  wreath  that  strove  to  bind ; 
These— and  the  pale  pure  cheek,  became  the  bier-  • 
But  she  is  nothing — ^wherefore  is  he  here  ? 

XXL 

He  ask'd  no  question — all  were  answer'd  now 
By  the  first  glance  on  that  still — marble  brow. 
It  was  enough — she  died — what  reck'd  it  how  ? 
The  love  of  youth,  the  hope  of  better  years. 
The  source  of  softest  wishes,  tenderest  fears. 
The  only  living  thing  he  could  not  hate. 
Was  reft  at  once — and  he  deserved  his  fate. 
But  did  not  feel  it  less ; — the  good  explore. 
For  peace,  those  realms  where  guilt  can  never  soar: 
The  proud — ^the  wayward — who  have  fix'd  below 
Their  joy,  and  find  this  earth  enough  for  wo, 
Lose  o  that  one  their  all — ^perchance  a  mite— 
But  who  in  patience  parts  with  all  delight  ? 
Full  many  a  stoic  eye  and  aspect  stem 
Mask  hearts  where  grief  hath  little  left  to  learn ; 
And  many  a  withering  thought  Ues  hid,  not  lost. 
In  smiles  that  least  befit  who  wear  them  most 

XXIL 

By  those,  that  deepest  feel,  is  ill  express'd 
The  indistinctness  of  the  suflering  breast ; 
Where  thousand  thoughts  begin  to  end  in  one, 
Which  seeks  from  all  the  refuge  found  in  none  | 
No  words  suffice  the  secret  soul  to  show. 
For  Truth  denies  all  eloquence  to  Wa 
On  Conrad's  stricken  soul  exhaustion  press'd. 
And  stupor  almost  luU'd  it  into  rest ; 
So  feeble  now — ^his  mother's  softness  crept 
To  those  wild  eyes,  which  like  an  infant's  wept : 
It  was  the  very  weakness  of  his  brain, 
Which  thus  confess'd  without  relieving  pain. 
None  saw  his  trickling  tears — perchance,  if  seen, 
That  useless  flood  of  grief  had  never  been : 
Nor  long  they  flow*d— he  dried  them  to  depart. 
In  helpless — ^hopeleas — ^brokenness  of  heart : 
The  sun  goes  forth — ^but  Conrad's  day  is  dim ; 
And  the  night  cometh — ne'er  to  pass  from  him. 
There  is  no  darkness  like  the  cloud  of  mind. 
On  Griers  vain  eye^ — ^the  blindest  of  the  blind  ! 
Which  may  not— -dare  not  see — ^but  turns  aside 
To  blackest  shade — nor  will  endure  a  guide ! 

XXIII. 

His  heart  was  form'd  for  softness — warp'd  to  wrong  ;• 
Betray'd  too  eariy,  and  beguiled  too  long ; 
Each  feeling  pure — as  falls  the  dropping  dew 
Within  the  grot ;  like  that  had  harden'd  too ; 
Less  clear,  perchance,  its  earthly  trials  pass'd. 
But  sunk,  and  chili'd,  and  petrified  at  last 
Yet  tempests  wear,  and  li^tning  cleaves  the  rock, 
If  such  his  heart,  so  shatter'd  it  the  shock. 
There  grew  one  flower  beneath  its  rugged  brow. 
Though  dark  the  shade — it  sheher'd — saved  till  now 
The  thunder  came — ^that  bolt  hath  blasted  both. 
The  Grani(('s  firmneas,  and  the  Lily's  growth : 
The  gentle  plant  hath  left  no  leaf  to  tell 
Its  tide,  but  shrunk  and  wither'd  where  it  5bll ; 
And  of  its  cold  protector,  blacken  round 
But  shiver'd  fragments  on  the  barren  ground ! 


9  rrbese  sixteen  lines  are  not  iu  the  original  MS.) 


^ 


Canto  i;l 


THE  CORSAIR. 


117 


XXIV. 
*Ti8  mom — to  yenture  on  his  lonely  hour 
Few  dare  ;  though  now  Anselmo  sought  his  tower. 
He  was  not  there— nor  seen  along  the  shore  ; 
Ere  night,  alarmM,  their  isle  is  traversed  o'er : 
Another  mom — another  bids  them  seek, 
And  shout  his  name  till  echo  waxeth  weak ; 
Mount — grotto — cavern — valley  searchM  in  vain, 
They  find  on  shore  a  seaboat's  broken  chain : 
TTieir  hope  revives — they  follow  o'er  the  main. 


»  That  the  point  of  honor  which  is  represented  in  one  In- 
stance of  Conrad's  character  has  not  been  carried  beyond 
the  bounds  of  probability,  may  perhaps  be  in  some  degree 
confirmed  by  the  foliowmg  anecdote  of  a  brother  buccaneer 
in  the  year  1814 :— "  Our  readers  have  all  seen  the  account 
of  the  enterprise  against  the  pirates  of  Barrataria ;  but  few, 
we  believe,  were  mformed  of  the  situation,  history,  or  na- 
ture of  th&..  istablishment.  For  the  information  of  such  as 
were  unacquainted  with  it,  we  have  procured  from  a  friend 
the  following  interesting  narrative  of  the  main  facts,  of 
which  he  has  personal  knowledge,  and  which  cannot  fail  to 
interest  some  of  our  readers.— Barrataria  is  a  bay,  or  a  nar- 
row arm  of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  :  it  runs  through  a  rich  but 
very  flat  country,  until  it  reaches  within  a  mile  of  the 
Mississippi  river,  fifteen  miles  below  the  city  of  New  Or- 
leans. The  bay  has  branches  almost  innumerable,  in  which 
persons  can  lie  concealetl  from  the  severest  scrutiny.  It 
communicates  with  three  lakes  which  lie  on  the  southwest 
side,  and  these,  with  the  lake  of  the  same  name,  and  which 
lies  contiguous  to  the  sea,  where  there  is  an  island  formed 
by  the  two  arms  of  this  lake  and  the  sea.  The  e;ist  and 
west  points  of  this  island  were  fortified,  in  the  year  1811, 
by  a  band  of  pirates,  un  ler  the  command  of  one  Monsieur 
La  Fitte.  A  large  majority  of  tlie<<e  outlaws  are  of  that 
class  of  the  population  of  the  slate  of  Louisiana  who  fled 
from  the  island  of  St.  Domingo  during  the  troubles  there, 
and  took  refuge  in  the  island  of  Cuba ;  and  when  the  last 
war  between  France  and  Spain  commenced,  they  were 
compelled  to  leave  that  island  with  the  short  notice  of  a 
few  days.  Without  ceremony,  they  entered  the  United 
States,  the  most  of  them  the  state  of  Louisiana,  with  all 
the  negroes  they  had  possessetl  in  Cuba  They  were  noti- 
fied by  the  Governor  of  that  State  of  the  clause  in  the  con 
stitution  which  forbade  the  importation  of  slaves  ;  but,  at 
the  same  time,  received  the  assurance  of  the  Governor  that 
be  would  obtam,  if  possible,  the  approbation  of  the  Gen- 
eral Government  for  their  retaining  this  property.— The 
island  of  Barrataria  is  situated  about  lal.  2^  deg.  15  min., 
loo.  93  30 ;  and  is  as  remarkable  for  its  health  as  for  the 
superior  scale  and  shell  fish  with  which  its  waters  abound. 
The  chief  of  this  horde,  like  Charles  de  .Moor,  had  mixed 
with  his  many  vice.s  some  virtues  In  the  vear  1813,  this 
party  had,  from  its  turpitude  and  boldness,  claimed  the  at- 
tention of  the  Governor  of  Louisiana  ;  and  to  break  up  the 
establishment,  he  thought  proper  to  strike  at  the  head.  He 
therefore  offered  a  reward  of  500  dollars  for  the  head  of 
Monsieur  La  Fitte,  who  was  well  known  to  the  inhabitants 
of  the  city  of  New  Oi  leans,  from  his  immediate  connection, 
and  his  once  having  been  a  fencing-inasler  in  that  city  of 
great  reputation,  which  art  he  leametl  in  Bonaparte's 
array,  where  he  was  a  captain.  The  reward  which  was  of- 
fered by  the  Governor  fcr  the  head  of  La  Fitte  was  an- 
swered by  the  offer  i.f  a  reward  from  the  latter  of  15,000  for 
the  head  of  the  Governor.  The  Governor  ordered  out  a 
company  to  march  Irora  the  c«ty  to  La  Fitte's  island,  and 
to  bum  and  de.*!troy  all  the  property,  and  to  bring  to  the 
city  of  New  Orleans  all  his  ban.litti.  This  company,  under 
the  command  of  a  man  who  had  been  the  intimate  asso- 
ciate of  this  bold  Captain,  approuched  very  near  to  the 
fortified  island,  before  he  saw  a  man,  or  heard  a  sound, 
until  he  heard  a  whistle,  not  unlike  a  boatswain*s  call 
Then  it  was  he  fOuud  himself  surrounded  by  armed  men 
who  had  emerged  from  the  secret  avenaet  which  led  into 
Bayou.  Here  it  was  that  the  modern  Ch:\rlcs  de  Moor  de- 
veioped  his  few  noble  traits  ;  for  to  this  mail  who  had  come 
to  destroy  his  life  and  all  that  was  dear  to  him,  he  not 
only  spared  his  life,  but  offered  him  that  which  would  have 
made  the  honest  soldier  easy  for  the  remainder  of  Ids 
days ;  which  was  indignantly  refused.  He  then,  with  the 
approbation  of  his  cuptor,  returned  to  the  city.  This  cir- 
cumstance, and  some  concomitant  events,  proved  that  this 
band  of  pirates  was  not  to  be  taken  by  land.  Our  naval 
fnrce  having  always  been  small  in  that  quarter,  exertions 
for  the  destruction  of  this  ilUcit  establishment  could  not  be 
expectea  from  them  until  augmented  ;  for  an  officer  of  the 
nary,  with  most  of  the  gunboats  on  that  station,  had  to  re- 
treat firom  an  overwhelming  force  of  La  Fitte's.    So  soon 


'Tis  idle  all — ^rooons  roll  on  moons  away, 

And  Conrad  conies  not — came  not  siuue  that  da} 

Nor  trace,  nor  tidings  of  his  doom  declare 

Where  lives  his  grief,  or  perish'd  his  despair 

Long  moum'd  his  band  whom  none  could  mourn  beside ; 

And  fair  the  monument  they  gave  his  bride : 

For  him  they  raise  not  the  recording  stone — 

His  death  yet  dubious,  deeds  too  widely  known  ; 

He  left  a  Corsair^s  name  to  other  times, 

Link'd  with  one  virtue,*  and  a  thousand  crimen.* 


as  the  augmentation  of  the  navy  authorized  an  attack,  one 
was  made  :  the  overthrow  of  this  banditti  has  been  the  re- 
sult ;  and  now  this  almost  invulnerable  point  and  key  to 
New  Orleans  is  clear  of  an  enemy,  it  is  to  be  hoped  the 
government  ulll  hold  it  by  a  strong  military  force.'* — 
Ameriean  Newspaper. 

In  Noble's  continuation  of  Grang^er's  Biographical  Histoiy 
there  is  a  singular  passage  in  hie  account  of  Archbishop 
Blackboume ;  and  as  in  some  measure  connected  with  the 
profession  of  the  hero  of  the  foregoing  poem,  1  cannot  resist 
the  temptation  of  extracting  it.—"  There  is  something  mys- 
terious in  the  history  and  character  of  Dr.  Blackboume. 
The  former  is  but  imperfectly  known  ;  and  report  ..as  e'en 
asserted  he  was  a  buccaneer ;  and  that  one  of  his  brethren  in 
that  profession  having  asked,  on  his  arrival  in  England,  what 
had  become  of  his  oldchum,  Blackboume,  was  answered,  He 
is  Archbishop  of  York.  We  are  informed,  that  Blackboume 
was  installea  sub-dean  of  Exeter  in  1694,  which  office  he  re- 
signed in  1702 ;  but  after  his  successor  Lewis  Bamet's  death, 
in  1704,  he  regained  it.  In  the  following  year  he  became 
dean ;  and  in  1714,  held  with  it  the  archdeanery  of  Comwjill. 
He  was  consecrated  bishop  of  Exeter,  February  24,  1716  ; 
and  translated  to  York,  November  28, 1724,  as  a  reward,  ac- 
cording to  court  scandal,  for  uniting  George  I.  to  the  Duchess 
of  Munster.  This,  however,  appears  to  have  been  an  un- 
founded calumny.  As  archbishop  he  behaved  viith  great 
pmdence,  and  was  equally  respectable  as  the  guardian  of  the 
revenues  of  the  see.  Rumor  whispered  he  retained  the 
vices  of  his  youth,  and  that  a  passion  for  the  fair  sex  formed 
an  item  in  the  list  of  his  weaknesses ;  but  so  far  from  being 
convicted  by  seventy  witnesses,  he  does  not  appear  to  have 
been  directly  criminated  by  one.  In  short,  I  look  upon  these 
aspersions  as  the  effects  of  mere  malice.  How  is  it  possible 
a  buccaneer  should  have  been  so  good  a  scholar  as  Black- 
boume certainly  was  7  He  who  had  so  perfect  a  knowledge  , 
of  the  classics,  (particularly  of  the  Greek  tragedians,)  as  to  i 
be  able  to  read  tliem  with  the  same  ease  as  he  could  i 
Shakspeare,  must  have  taken  great  pains  to  acquire  the 
learned  languages ;  and  have  had  both  leisure  and  good  i 
masters.  But  he  was  undoubtedly  educated  at  Christ 
Church  College,  0\ford.    He  is  allowed  to  have  be*  n  a 

Eleasant  man  :  this,  however,  was  turned  against  him  by  its    | 
eing  said,  *  he  gained  more  hearts  than  souls.' "  | 

"The  only  voice  that  could  soothe  the  passions  of  the 
savage  (Alphonso  III.)  was  that  of  an  amiable  and  virtuous 
wife,  the  sole  '^h-  v.t.  of  K'«  io"«  •.  the  voice  of  Donna  Isabella,    I 
the  daughter  of  the  Duke  of  Savoy,  and  the  grand-daughter  of 
Philip  n.  King  of  Spain.— Her  dyin^  words  sunk  deep  into    I 
his  memory ;  his  fierce  spirit  melted  into  tears ;  and  after  the   I 
last  embrace,  Alphonso  retired  into  his  chamber  to  bewail   I 
his  irreparable  loss,  and  to  meditate  on  the  vanity  of  human 
life."— Gibbon's  Miscellaneous  Works,  vol.  iii.  p.  473. 

9  [In  "  The  Corsair,**  Lord  Byron  first  felt  himself  at  full 
liberty ;  and  then  all  at  once  he  shows  the  unbroken  stream 
of  his  native  eloquence,  of  rapid  narrative,  of  vigorous  and 
intense,  yet  unforced  imagery,  sentiment,  and  thought ;  of 
extraordinary  elasticity,  transparency,  purity,  ease,  and  har- 
mony of  language ;  of  an  arrangement  of  words,  never  trite, 
yet  fuways  simple  and  flowing ;— in  such  a  perfect  expression 
of  ideas,  always  impressive,  generally  pointed,  frequently 
passionate,  ana  often  new,  that  it  is  perspicuity  itself,  with    ' 
not  a  superfiuous  word,  and  not  a  word  out  of  its  natural    I 
place.— Sir  E.  Brydoes.    '*  The  Corsair"  is  written  in  the    i 
regular  heroic  couplet,  with  a  spirit,  freedom,  and  variety    I 
of  ♦one.  of  which,  notwithstanding  the  example  of  Dryden, 
ys  e  scarcely  believed  that  measure  susceptible.    It  was  yet 
to  be  proved  that  this,  the  most  ponderous  and  stately  verse   | 
in  our  language,  could  be  accommodated  to  the  variations   i 
of  a  tale  of  passion  and  of  pity,  and  to  all  the  breaks, 
starts,  and  transitions  of  an  adventurous  and  dramatic  nar-    I 
ration.    This  experiment  Lord  Byron  has  made,  with  equal 
boldness  and  success  ;  and  has  satisfied  us,  that  the  oldest 
and  most  respectable  measure  that  is  known  amongst  us  is 
at  least  as  flexible  as  any  other,  and  capable,  in  the  hands 
of  a  master,  of  vibrations  as  strong  and  rapid  as  those  of  a 
lighter  structure.— JsrPRBY.] 


118 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto 


LARAj 

A   TALE.' 


LARA. 


CANTO  THE  FnUTT. 


I. 


The  Seitf  are  glad  throagh  Lara's  wide  domain) 
And  slavery  half  forgets  her  feudal  chain ; 
He,  their  unhoped,  but  unforgotten  lord, 
The  long  self-exiled  chieftain,  is  restored : 
There  be  bright  faces  in  the  busy  hall, 
Bowls  on  the  board,  and  banners  on  the  wall ; 
Far  checkering  o'er  the  pictured  window,  plays 
The  unwonted  fagots'  hospitable  blaze  ; 
And  gay  retainers  gather  round  the  hearth. 
With  tongues  all  loudness,  and  with  eyes  all  mirth. 

II. 

The  chief  of  Lara  is  retum'd  again : 
And  why  had  Lara  croes'd  the  bounding  main  7 
Loft  by  his  sire,  too  young  such  loss  to  know, 
Lord  of  himself ; — that  heritage  of  wo, 
That  fearful  empire  which  the  human  breast 
But  holds  to  rob  the  heart  within  of  rest ! — 


With  none  to  check  and  few  to  point  in  time 
The  thousand  paths  that  slope  the  way  to  crime ; 
Then,  when  he  most  required  commandment,  thei 
Had  Lara's  daring  boyhood  goveru'd  men. 
It  skills  not,  boots  not  step  by  step  to  trace 
His  youth  through  all  the  mazes  of  its  race ; 
Short  was  the  course  his  restlessness  had  run, 
But  long  enough  to  leave  him  half  undone.* 

III. 

And  Lara  left  in  youth  his  father-land  ; 
i  But  from  the  hour  he  waved  his  parting  hand 
I  Each  trace  wax'd  fainter  of  his  course,  till  all 
I  Had  nearly  ceased  his  memory  to  recall. 
I  His  sire  was  dust,  his  vassals  could  declare, 
!  TwaB  all  they  knew,  that  Lara  was  not  there ; 
Nor  sent,  nor  came  he,  till  conjecture  grew 
Cold  in  the  many,  anxious  m  the  few. 
His  hall  scarce  echoes  with  his  wonted  name, 
His  portrait  darkens  in  its  fading  frame. 
Another  chief  consoled  his  destined  bride, 
The  young  forgot  him,  and  the  old  had  died ; 
"  Yet  doth  he  live !"  exclauns  the  impatient  heir, 
And  sighs  for  sables  which  ho  must  not  wear. 
A  hundred  scutcheons  deck  with  gloomy  grace 
The  Laras'  last  and  longest  dwelling-place ; 


1  rA  few  days  after  he  had  put  the  finishing  hand  to  the 
<*  Oae  to  Napoleon  Bonaparte,"  Lord  Byron  adopted  the 
most  extraordinary  resolution  that,  perhaps,  ever  entered 
into  the  mind  of  an  author  of  any  celeDhty-  Annoyed  at  the 
tone  of  disparagement  in  which  his  assailants— not  content 
with  blackening  his  moral  and  social  character— now  af- 
fected to  speak  of  his  ^^'Pins,  and  somewhat  mortified,  there 
is  reason  to  believe,  by  findmg  that  his  own  friends  dreaded 
the  effects  of  constant  publiciAion  on  his  ultimate  fame,  he 
came  to  the  determination,  not  onlr  to  print  no  more  in  fu- 
ture, but  to  purchase  back  the  whole  ofnis  past  copyrights, 
and  suppress  every  line  he  had  ever  written,  with  this 
view,  on  the  29th  of  April,  he  actually  enclosed  his  pub- 
lisher a  draft  for  the  money.  "  For  all  this,**  he  said,  "  it 
might  be  as  well  to  assign  some  reason :  I  have  none  to 
give,  except  my  own  caprice,  and  I  do  not  consider  the  cir- 
cumstance of  consequence  enoush  to  require  explanation." 
An  appeal,  however,  from  Mr.  Murray,  to  his  good-nature  . 
and  consiaerateness,  brought,  in  eig  »  and  forty  hours,  the  ' 
following  reply :— "  If  your  present  note  is  serious,  and  it 
really  would  oe  inconvenient,  there  is  an  end  of  the  matter :  ' 
tear  my  draft,  and  go  on  as  usual :  that  I  was  perfectly 
serious,  in  wishing  to  suppress  all  future  publication,  is  I 
true ;  but  certainly  not  to  interfere  with  the  convenience  of 
others,  and  more  particularly  your  own." 

The  following  passages  in  his  Diary  depict  the  state  of  ' 
Lord  Byron's  mind  at  this  period :— ♦♦  Murray  has  had  a  i 
letter  from  his  brother  bibliopole  of  Edinburgh,  who  says,  I 
'  he  is  lucky  in  having  such  a  po«/'— something  as  if  one 
was  a  pack-horse,  or  '  ass,  or  any  thing  that  is  his  :*  or  like  I 
Mrs.  Pack  wood,  who  replied  to  some  inquiry  after  the  Odes 
on  Razors,  *  Laws,  sir,  we  keeps  a  poet.'  The  same  iilus-  , 
trious  Edinburgh  bookseller  once  sent  an  order  for  books, 

S)esy,  and  cookery,  with  this  agreeable  postscnpt — '  The 
aroid  and  Cookery  are  much  wanted.*  Such  is  fame  !  and, 
after  all,  quite  as  good  as  any  other  ♦  life  in  others'  breath.' 
*Tis  much  the  same  to  divide  purchasers  with  Hannah 
Glasse  or  Hannah  More."—*'  March  17th,  Redde  the  *  Quar- 
rels of  Authors,'  a  new  work  bythat  most  entertaining  and 
researching  writer,  D'Israeli.  They  seem  to  be  an  irritable 
let,  and  I  wish  myself  well  out  of  it.  '  I'll  not  march  through  i 
Corentry  with  them,  that's  flat.'    What  the  devil  had  I  to  I 


do  with  the  scribbling  T  It  is  too  late  to  inquire,  and  all  re- 
gret is  useless.  But  'on  it  were  to  do  again— 4  should  write 
again,  I  suppose.  Such  is  human  nature,  at  least  my  share 
of  it ;— though  I  shall  think  better  of  myself  if  1  have  sense 
to  stop  now.  If  I  have  a  wife,  and  that  wife  has  a  son.  I 
will  bring  up  mine  heir  in  the  most  anti -poetical  way — 
moke  him  a  lawyer,  or  a  pirate,  or  any  thing.  But  if  he 
writes-  too,  I  shall  be  sure  he  is  none  of  mine,  and  will  cut 
him  off  with  a  Bank  token.*'— "April  19,  1  will  keep  no 
further  journal ;  and.  to  prevent  me  from  returning,  like  a 
dog,  to  the  vomit  of  memory,  I  'ear  out  the  remaining 
leaves  of  tliis  volume.    •  Oh  fool       shall  go  mad.' " 

These  extracts  are  from  the  Diary  of  March  and  April^l814. 
Before  the  end  of  May  he  had  begun  the  composition  of 
"  Lara."  which  has  been  almost  universally  considered  as 
the  continuiUion  of  "  The  Corsair."  This  poem  was  pub- 
lished anonymously  in  the  following  August,  in  the  same 
volume  with  Mr.  Rogers's  elegant  tale  of  ♦•  Jacqueline  ;"  an 
-ch, 


Rave  rise  to  some  pretty  good  jokes.  **I  believe."  says 
Lord  Byron,  in  one  of  his  letters,  ♦'  I  told  vou  of  Larry 
and  Jacquy.    A  iTlcnd  of  mine— at  least  a  friend  of  Ids— 


unnatural  and  unintelligible  conjunction,  which,  however, 

lelieve."  says 
rou  of  Larry 
icnd  of  Ids— 
was  reading  said  Larry  and  Jacquy  in  a  Brighton  coach.  A 
passenger  took  up  the  book  and  queried  as  to  the  author. 
The  proprietor  said,  'there  were  two ;'— to  which  the 
answer  of  the  unknown  was,  *  Ay,  av,— a  joint  concern,  I 
suppose,  tummot  like  Slemhold  and  Hopkins.'  Is  not  this 
excellent  ?  I  would  not  have  missed  the  •  vile  comparison' 
to  have  escaped  being  the  'Arcades  ambo  et  cantare 
pares.' "] 

*  The  reader  is  apprized,  that  the  name  of  Lara  being 
Spanish,  and  no  circumstance  of  local  and  natural  descrip- 
tion  fixing  the  scene  or  hero  of  the  poem  to  any  country  or 
age,  the  word  "  Serf,''  which  could  not  be  correctly  appried 
to  the  lower  classes  in  Spain,  who  were  never  vassals  of 
the  soil,  has  nevertheless  been  employed  to  designate  the 
followers  of  our  fictitious  chieftain.— {Lord  Bvroii  else- 
where intimates,  that  he  meant  Lara  for  a  chief  of  the  1 
Morea.] 

» [Lord  Byron's  oven  tale  is  partly  told  in  this  section.—  | 
Sib  Waltbr  Scott.]  . 

1- J 


Cahto  I.  LARA. 


119 


But  one  is  absent  from  the  mouldering  file, 
That  now  were  welcome  in  that  Gothic  pile. 

1  IV. 

He  comes  at  last  in  sadden  loneliness, 
And  whence  they  know  not,  why  they  need  not  guess ; 
They  mote  might  marvel,  when  the  greeting's  o*er. 
Not  that  he  came,  but  came  not  long  before : 
No  train  is  his  beyond  a  single  page, 
Of  foreign  aspect,  and  of  tender  age. 
Years  had  roird  on,  and  fast  they  speed  away 
To  those  that  wander  as  to  those  that  stay ; 
But  lack  of  tidings  firom  another  clime 
Had  lent  a  flagging  wing  to  weary  Time. 
They  see,  they  recognise,  yet  almost  deem 
The  present  dubions,  or  the  past  a  dream. 

He  lives,  nor  yet  is  pest  his  manhood's  prime. 
Though  sear'd  by  toil,  and  something  touchM  by  time ; 
His  faults,  whatever  they  were,  if  scarce  forgot. 
Might  be  untaught  him  by  his  varied  lot ; 
Nor  good  nor  ill  of  late  were  known,  his  name 
Might  yet  uphold  his  patrimonial  fame : 
His  soul  in  youth  was  haughty,  but  his  sins 
No  more  than  pleasure  from  the  stripling  wins ; 
And  such,  if  not  yet  hardened  in  their  course. 
Might  be  redeem'd,  nor  ask  a  long  remorse. 

V. 

And  they  indeed  were  changed — 'tis  quickly  seen, 
WhateVr  he  be,  'twas  not  what  he  had  been : 
That  brow  in  furrow'd  lines  had  fix'd  at  last. 
And  spake  of  passions,  but  of  passion  past : 
Tlie  pride,  but  not  the  fire,  of  eariy  days, 
Coldness  of  mien,  and  carelessness  of  praise  ; 
A  high  demeanor,  and  a  glance  that  took 
Their  thoughts  from  others  by  a  siugie  look ; 
And  that  sarcastic  levity  of  tongue, 
The  stinging  of  a  heart  the  worid  hath  stung,* 
That  darts  in  seeming  playfulness  around. 
And  makes  those  feel  Uiat  will  not  owu  the  wound ; 
An  these  seem'd  his,  and  something  more  beneath. 
Than  glance  could  well  reveal,  or  accent  breathe. 
Ambition,  glory,  love,  the  common  aim. 
That  some  can  conquer,  and  that  all  would  claim. 
Within  his  breast  appeared  no  more  to  strive. 
Yet  4eem'd  as  lately  they  had  been  alive  ; 
And  some  deep  feeling  it  were  vain  to  trace 
At  moments  lightened  o'er  his  livid  face. 


1  [It  is  a  remarkable  property  of  the  poetry  of  Lord  Byron, 
that  althoueh  his  manner  is  frequently  varied,— although  he 
appears  to  have  assumed  for  an  occasion  the  characteristic 
stanza  and  style  of  several  contemporaries,--yet  not  only  is 
his  poetry  matted  in  every  instance  by  the  strongest  cast  of 
originality,  but  in  some  leading  particulars,  and  especially  in 
the  character  of  his  heroes,  each  stonr  so  closely  resembled 
the  other,  that,  managed  by  a  writer  of  less  power,  the  effect 
would  have  been  an  unpleasant  monotomy.  AH.  or  almost  all, 
bis  heroes  have  somewhat  the  attributes  of  Childe  Harold  :— 
all,  or  almost  all,  have  minds  which  seem  at  variance  with 
their  fortunes,  and  exhibit  high  and  ipoignant  feelings  of  pain 
and  pleasure ;  a  keen  sense  of  what  is  noble  and  honorable ; 
and  an  equally  keen  susceptibility  of  injustice  or  injury , under 
the  gaxb  of  stoicism  or  contempt  of  mankind.  Tlie  strength 
of  eariy  passion,  and  the  glow  of  youthful  feeling,  are  uni- 
forrolypamted  as  chilled  or  subduea  by  a  trainof  early  impru- 
dences or  of  darker  guilt,  and  the  sense  of  enjoyment  tarnish- 
ed, by  too  intimate  an  acquaintance  with  the  vanity  of  human 
Kitbes.  These  general  attributes  mark  the  stem  features  of 
alLLord  Byron's  heroes,  from  those  which  are  shaded  by  the 
sctUoped  nat  of  the  illustrious  Pilgrim,  to  those  which  lurk 
oater  the  turban  of  Alp  the  Renegade.  It  was  reserved  to 
faiM  to  present  the  same  character  on  the  public  stage  again 
am  again,  varied  only  by  the  exertions  of  that  powerful 


■I 
J 


VI. 


Not  much  he  loved  long  question  of  the  past. 
Nor  told  of  woudrous  wilds,  and  deserts  vast, 
In  those  far  lands  where  he  had  wanderM  lone, 
And — as  himself  would  have  it  seem — imknowu : 
Yet  these  in  vain  his  eye  could  scarcely  scan. 
Nor  glean  experience  fh)m  hb  fellow  man ; 
But  what  he  had  beheld  he  shunn'd  to  show, 
As  hardly  worth  a  stranger's  care  to  know  ; 
If  still  more  prying  such  inquiry  grew. 
His  brow  fell  darker,  and  his  wo^  more  lew. 

VII. 

Not  unrejoiced  to  see  him  once  agaiu. 
Warm  was  his  welcome  to  the  haunts  of  men  ; 
Bom  of  high  lineage,  link'd  in  high  command. 
He  mingled  with  the  Magnates  of  his  land ; 
Joiu'd  the  carousals  of  the  great  and  gay. 
And  saw  them  smile  or  sigh  their  hours  away ;' 
But  still  ho  ouly  saw,  and  did  not  share, 
The  common  pleasure  or  the  general  care ; 
He  did  not  follow  what  they  all  pursued, 
With  hope  still  baffled  still  to  be  reuew'd ; 
Nor  shadowy  honor,  nor  substantial  gain. 
Nor  beauty's  preference,  and  the  rival's  pain : 
Around  him  some  mysterious  circle  thrown 
Repell'd  approach,  and  show'd  him  still  alone ; 
Upon  his  eye  sat  something  of  reproof. 
That  kept  at  least  frivolity  aloof; 
And  things  more  timid  that  beheld  him  near. 
In  silence  gazed,  or  whisper'd  mutual  fear ; 
And  they  me  wiser,  friendlier  few  confess'd 
They  deem'd  him  better  than  his  air  express'd. 

VIII. 
*Twa8  strange— in  youth  all  action  and  all  life, 
Burning  for  pleasure,  not  averse  from  strife  ; 
Woman — ^the  field — ^the  ocean — all  that  gave 
Promise  of  gladness,  peril  of  a  grave. 
In  turn  he  tried — ^he  ransack'd  all  below, 
And  found  his  recompense  in  joy  or  wo, 
No  tame,  trite  medium  ;  for  his  feelings  souj^t 
In  that  intensenees  an  escape  from  thought : 
The  tempest  of  his  heart  in  scorn  had  gazed 
On  that  the  feebler  elements  hath  raised ; 
The  rapture  of  his  heart  had  look'd  on  high, 
And  ask'd  if  greater  dwelt  beyond  the  sky : 
Chain'd  to  excess,  the  slave  of  each  extreme. 
How  woke  he  from  the  wildneas  of  that  dream  ? 


genius  which,  searching  the  springs  of  passion  and  of  feel- 
mg  in  their  innermost  recesses,  knew  how  to  combine  their 
operations,  so  that  the  interest  was  eternally  varying,  and 
never  abated,  although  the  most  important  personage  of  the 
drama  retained  the  same  lineaments.    It  will  one  day  be 
considered  as  not  the  least  remarkable  literary  phenomenon 
of  this  age,  that  during  a  period  of  four  years,  notwith- 
standing the  quantity  of  distinguished  poetical  talent  of 
which  we  may  be  pennitted  to  boast,  a  smgle  author— and 
he  managinj;  his  pen  with  the  careless  and  negligent  case 
of  a  man  of  quahty,  and  choosing  for  his  theme  subjects  so  | 
very  similar,  and  personages  beanng  so  close  a  resemblance   ' 
to  each  other,— did,  in  despite  of  tliese  circumstances,  of  , 
the  unamiable  attributes  witu  which  he  usually  invested  his   | 
heroes,  and  of  the  proverbial  fickleness  of  the  public,  main- 
tain the  ascendency  in  their  favor,  which  he  had  acquired   I 
by  his  first  matured  production.    So,  however,  it  indisputa-   ' 
bly  has  been.— Sia  Waltxk  Scott.] 

•  [This  description  of  Lara,  suddenly  and  unexpectedly 
returned  from  distant  travels,  and  reassuming  his  station 
in  the  society  of  his  own  country,  has  strong  points  of  rc> 
semblance  to  the  part  which  tne  author  himself  seemed 
occasionally  to  bear  amid  the  scenes  where  the  great  mingle 
with  the  fair.— Sir  Walter  Scott.] 


120 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


Alas !  he  told  not — ^but  he  did  awake 

To  cune  the  withered  heart  that  would  not  break. 

IX. 

Books,  for  his  yolome  heretofore  was  Man, 

With  eye  more  curions  he  appear'd  to  scan, 
!   And  oft,  in  sudden  mood,  for  many  a  day, 

From  all  communion  he  would  start  away : 
;  And  then,  his  rarely  call'd  attendants  said, 
j  Through  night's  long  hours  would  sound  his  hurried 

tread 
'  O'er  tlie  dark  gallery,  where  his  fathers  frowned 

In  rude  but  antique  portraiture  around : 

They   heard,   but   whi8per*d — **  that    must   not   be 
known — 

The  sound  of  words  less  earthly  than  his  own. 

Yes,  they  who  chose  might  smile,  but  some  had  seen 
;  They  scarce  knew  what,  but  more  than  should  have 

been. 
!  Why  gazed  he  so  upon  the  ghastly  head 
'  Which  hands  profane  had  gathered  from  the  dead. 

That  still  beside  his  open'd  volume  lay, 

As  if  to  startle  all  save  him  away  ? 

Why  slept  he  not  when  others  were  at  rest  ? 

Why  heard  no  music,  and  received  no  guest? 
i   All  was  not  well,  they  deem'd — but  where  the  wrong? 

Some  knew  perchance — but  'twere  a  tale  too  long ; 

And  such  besides  were  too  discreetly  wise. 

To  more  than  hint  their  knowledge  in  surmise ; 

But  if  they  would — they  could" — around  the  board. 

Thus  Lara's  vassals  prattled  of  their  lord. 

X. 

!   It  was  the  night — and  Lara's  glassy  stream 
The  stars  are  studding,  each  with  imaged  beam ; 
So  calm,  the  waters  scarcely  seem  to  stray, 
And  yet  they  glide  like  happiness  away ; 
Reflecting  far  and  fairy-like  from  hirh 
The  immortal  lights  that  live  along  me  sky : 
Its  banks  are  fringed  witli  many  a  goodly  tree,     ' 
And  flowers  the  fairest  that  may  feast  the  bee ; 
Such  in  her  chaplct  infant  Dian  wove, 
And  Innocence  would  offer  to  her  love. 
These  deck  the  shore ;  the  waves  their  channel  make 
In  windings  bright  and  mazy  like  the  snake. 
All  was  so  still,  so  soft  in  earth  and  air, 
You  scarce  would  start  to  meet  a  spirit  there ; 
Secure  that  naught  of  evil  could  delight 
To  walk  in  such  a  scene,  on  such  a  night ! 
It  was  a  moment  only  for  the  good : 
So  Lara  deem'd,  nor  longer  there  he  stood. 
But  tum'd  in  silence  to  his  castle-gate ; 
i   Such  scene  his  soul  no  more  could  contemplate : 
I   Such  scene  reminded  him  of  other  days, 
'   Of  skies  more  cloudless,  moons  of  purer  blaze. 

Of  nights  more  soft  and  frequent,  hearts  that  now — 
!   No — no— the  storm  may  beat  upon  his  brow, 
I   Unfolt — unsparing — but  a  night  like  this, 
A  night  of  beauty,  mock'd  such  breast  as  his. 

XL 

*   He  tum'd  within  his  solitary  hall. 
And  his  high  shadow  shot  along  the  wall : 
There  were  the  painted  forms  of  other  times, 
'Twas  all  they  left  of  virtues  or  of  crimes, 
,   Save  vague  tradition ;  and  the  gloomy  vaults 
I  That  hid  their  dust,  their  foibles,  and  their  faults ; 
'   And  half  a  column  of  the  pompous  page, 
I   That  speeds  the  specious  tale  from  age  to  age ; 


Where  history's  pen  its  praise  or  blame  supplies, 
And  Ues  like  truth,  and  still  most  truly  lies. 
He  wandering  mused,  and  as  the  moonbeam  shone 
Through  the  dim  lattice  o'er  the  floor  of  stone. 
And  the  high  fretted  roof,  and  saints,  that  there 
O'er  Gothic  wmdows  knelt  in  pictured  prayer. 
Reflected  in  fantastic  figures  grew, 
Like  life,  but  not  like  mortal  hfe,  to  view ; 
His  bristling  locks  of  sable,  brow  of  gloom. 
And  the  wide  waving  of  his  ^aken  plume, 
Glanced  like  a  qiectre's  attributes,  and  guve 
His  aspect  all  that  terror  gives  the  grave. 

XIL 
*Twas  midnight — all  was  slumber ;  the  lone  light 
Dimm'd  in  the  lamp,  as  loth  to  break  the  night 
Hark !  there  be  murmurs  heard  in  Lara's  hall — 
A  sound — a  voice — a  shriek — a  fearful  call ! 
A  long,  loud  shriek — and  silence— did  they  hear 
That  fhintic  echo  burst  the  sleeping  ear? 
They  heard  and  rose,  and,  tremulously  brave, 
Rush  where  the  sound  invoked  .faeir  aid  to  save ; 
They  come  with  half-lit  tapers  n  their  hands. 
And  snatch'd  in  startled  haste  unbelted  brands. 

XIIL 

Cold  as  the  marble  where  his  length  was  laid. 

Pale  as  the  beam  that  o'er  his  features  play'd, 

Was  Lara  stretch'd ;  his  half-drawn  sabre  near, 

Dropp'd  it  should  seem  in  more  than  nature's  fear ; 

Yet  he  was  firm,  or  had  been  firm  till  now. 

And  still  defiance  knit  his  gather'd  brow ; 

Though  mix'd  with  terror,  senseless  as  he  lay. 

There  lived  upon  his  lip  the  wish  to  slay  ; 

Some  half-form'd  threat  in  utterance  there  had  died, 

Some  imprecation  of  despairing  pride ; 

His  eye  was  almost  seal'd,  but  not  forsook 

Even  in  its  trance  the  gladiator's  look. 

That  oft  awake  his  aspect  could  disclose. 

And  now  was  fix'd  in  horrible  repose. 

They  raise  him — bear  him ; — hush !  he  breathes,  he 

speaks. 
The  swarthy  blush  recolors  in  his  cheeks. 
His  lip  resumes  its  red,  his  eye,  though  dim. 
Rolls  wide  and  wild,  each  slowly  quivering  limb 
Recalls  its  function,  but  his  words  are  strung 
In  terms  that  seem  not  of  his  native  tongue ; 
Distinct  but  strange,  enough  they  understand 
To  deem  them  accents  of  another  land ; 
And  such  they  were,  and  meant  to  meet  an  ear 
That  hears  him  not— alas !  that  cannot  hear ! 

XIV. 
His  page  approach'd,  and  he  alone  appear'd 
To  know  the  import  of  the  words  they  heard ; 
And,  by  the  changes  of  his  cheek  and  brow, 
They  were  not  such  as  Lara  should  avow. 
Nor  he  interpret, — yet  with  leas  surprise 
Than  those  oroimd  their  chieftain's  state  he  eyes, 
But  Lara's  prostrate  form  he  bent  beside. 
And  in  that  tongue  which  scera'd  his  own  replied, 
And  Lara  heeds  tliose  tones  that  gently  seem 
To  soothe  away  the  horrors  of  his  dream — 
If  dream  it  were,  that  thus  could  overthrow 
A  breast  that  needed  not  ideal  wo. 

XV. 

Wliate'er  hb  phrensy  dream'd  or  eye  beheld, 

If  yet  remember'd  ne'er  to  be  reveal'd,  ; 


Canto  i. 


LARA. 


121 


Rwts  at  his  heart:  the  cuatomM  morning  eame, 
And  breathed  new  vigor  in  his  shaken  frame ; 
And  solace  soogfat  he  none  from  priest  nor  leech, 
And  soon  the  same  in  morement  and  in  speech 
As  heretofore  he  fill*d  the  passing  hours, — 
Nor  lees  he  smiles,  nor  more  his  foreheaid  lowers, 
Than  these  were  wont ;  and  if  the  coming  night. 
Appeared  lees  welcome  now  to  Lara's  sight, 
He  to  his  mairelling  vassals  showM  it  not. 
Whose  shuddering  proved  their  fear  was  less  forgot 
In  trembling  pairs  (alone  they  dared  not)  crawl 
The  astonished  slaves,  and  shun  the  fated  hall ; 
The  waving  banner,  and  the  clapping  door. 
The  rustling  tapestry,  and  the  echoing  floor ; 
The  long  dim  shadows  of  surrounding  trees. 
The  flapping  bat,  the  night-song  of  the  breeze ; 
Aught  they  behold  or  hear  their  thought  appals. 
As  evening  saddens  o'er  the  dark  gray  walls. 


XVL 

Vain  thought !  that  hour  of  ne'er  unravell'd  gloom 
Came  not  again,  or  Lara  could  assume 
A  seeming  of  forgetfulness,  that  made 
His  vassab  more  amazed  nor  less  afraid — 
Had  memory  vauish'd  then  with  sense  restored  7 
Since  word,  nor  look,  nor  gesture  of  their  lord 
Betray'd  a  feeling  that  reoall'd  to  these 
That  fever'd  moment  of  his  mind's  disease. 
Was  it  a  dream  ?  was  his  the  voice  that  spoke 
Those  strange  wild  accents ;  his  the  cry  that  broke 
Their  slumber  7  his  the  oppressed,  o'erlabor'd  heart 
That  ceased  to  beat,  the  look  that  made  them  start  7 
Could  he  who  thus  had  suflered  so  forget, 
Wlien  such  as  saw  that  suflering  shudder  yet? 
Or  did  that  silence  prove  his  memory  fix'd  . 
Too  deep  for  words,  indelible,  unmix'd 
In  that  corroding  secrecy  which  gnaws 
The  heart  to  show  the  efiect,  but  not  the  cause? 
Not  so  in  him  ;  his  breast  had  buried  both. 
Nor  common  gazers  could  discern  the  growth 
Of  thoughts  that  mortal  lips  must  leave  half  told ; 
They  choke  the  feeble  words  that  would  unfold. 


XVII. 

In  him  inexplicably  mix'd  appeared 

Much  to  be  loved  and  hated,  sought  and  fear'd ; 

Opinion  varying  o'er  his  hidden  lot, 

In  praise  or  railing  ne'er  his  name  jforgot : 

His  silence  form'd  a  theme  for  others'  prate — 

They  graess'd — they  gazed — they  fain  would  know  his 

fate. 
What  had  he  been?  what  was  he,  thus  unknown, 
Who  walk*d  their  world,  his  lineage  only  known? 
A  hater  of  his  kind  7  yet  some  would  say. 
With  them  he  could  seem  gay  amidst  the  gay ; 
But  own'd  that  smile,  if  oft  observed  and  near, 
Waned  in  its  mirth,  and  withered  to  a  sneer ; 
Thni  smile  might  reach  his  lip,  but  pass'd  not  by, 
None  e'er  could  trace  its  laughter  to  his  eye : 
Yet  there  was  softness  too  in  his  regard. 
At  times,  a  heart  as  not  by  nature  hard. 
But  once  perceived,  his  spirit  seem'd  to  chide 
Such  weakness,  as  unworthy  of  its  pride. 
And  steerd  itself,  as  sconiing  to  redeem 
One  doubt  from  others'  half-withheld  esteem ; 
In  self-inflicted  penance  of  a  breast 
Which  tenderness  might  once  have  wrung  from  rest ; 


]€ 


In  vigilance  of  grief  that  would  compel 
The  soul  to  hate  for  havmg  loved  too  well. 


XVIIL 

There  was  in  him  a  vital  scorn  of  all : 

As  if  the  worst  had  fallen  which  could  befall. 

He  stood  a  stranger  in  this  breathing  world. 

An  erring  spirit  from  another  hurVd ; 

A  thing  of  dark  imaginings,  that  shaped 

By  choice  the  perils  he  by  chance  escaped , 

But  'scaped  in  vain,  for  in  their  memory  yet 

His  mind  would  half  exult  and  half  regret : 

With  more  capacity  for  love  than  earUi 

Bestows  on  most  of  mortal  mould  and  birth, 

His  eariy  dreams  of  good  outstripp'd  the  truth. 

And  troubled  manhood  followed  baffled  youth ; 

With  thought  of  years  in  phantom  chase  misspent. 

And  wasted  powers  for  better  purpose  lent ; 

And  fiery  passions  that  had  pour'd  their  wrath 

In  hurried  desolation  o*er  his  path, 

And  left  the  better  feelings  all  at  strife 

In  wild  reflection  o'er  his  stormy  life ; 

But  haughty  still,  and  loth  himself  to  blaipe. 

He  call'd  on  Nature's  self  to  ^are  the  shame. 

And  charged  all  faults  upon  the  fleshy  form 

She  gave  to  clog  the  soul,  and  feast  the  worm  ; 

Till  he  at  last  confounded  good  and  ill. 

And  half  mistook  for  fate  Uie  acts  of  will : 

Too  high  for  common  selfishness,  he  could 

At  times  resign  his  own  for  others'  good. 

But  not  in  pity,  not  because  he  oug^t. 

But  in  some  strange  perversity  of  thought. 

That  sway'd  him  onward  with  a  secret  pride 

To  do  what  few  or  none  would  do  beside ; 

And  this  same  impulse  would,  in  tempting  time, 

Mislead  liis  spirit  equally  to  crime ; 

So  much  he  soar'd  beyond,  or  sunk  beneath. 

The  men  with  whom  he  felt  condemn'd  to  breathe, 

And  longed  by  good  or  ill  to  separate 

Himself  from  aU  who  shared  his  mortal  state  ; 

His  mind  abhorring  this  had  fix'd  her  throne 

Far  from  the  world,  in  regions  of  her  own : 

Thus  coldly  passing  all  that  pass'd  below. 

His  blood  in  temperate  seeming  now  would  flow : 

Ah !  happier  if  it  ne'er  with  guilt  had  glow'd, 

But  ever  in  that  icy  smoothness  flow'd ! 

'Tis  true,  with  other  men  their  path  he  walk'd, 

And  like  the  rest  in  seeming  did  and  talk'd. 

Nor  outraged  Reason's  rules  by  flaw  nor  start ; 

His  madness  was  not  of  the  head,  but  heart. 

And  rarely  wander'd  in  his  speech,  or  drew 

His  thoughts  so  forth  as  to  oflend  the  view. 


XIX. 

With  all  that  chilling  mystery  of  mien, 
And  seeming  gladness  to  remain  unseen. 
He  had  (if  'twere  not  nature's  boou)  an  art 
Of  fixing  memory  on  another's  heart : 
It  was  not  love  perchance — nor  hate— nor  aught 
That  words  can  image  to  express  the  thought ; 
But  they  who  saw  him  did  not  see  in  vain, 
And  once  beheld,  would  ask  of  him  again : 
And  those  to  whom  he  spake  remero^r*d  well, 
And  on  the  words,  however  light,  would  dwell : 
None  knew,  nor  how,  nor  why,  but  he  entwined 
Himself  perforce  around  the  hearer's  mind  ; 
There  he  was  stamp'd,  in  liking,  or  in  hate. 
If  greeted  once ;  however  brief  the  date 


.22 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


That  friendship,  pity,  or  ayenioii  knew, 
Still  there  within  the  inmost  thought  he  grew. 
You  could  not  penetrate  his  soul,  but  found. 
Despite  your  wonder,  to  your  own  he  woMd ; 
His  presence  haunted  still ;  and  from  the  oreast 
He  forced  an  all  unwilling  interest : 
Vain  was  the  struggle  in  that  mental  net. 
His  spirit  seem'd  to  dare  you  to  forget ! 


XX. 

There  is  a  festival,  where  knights  and  dames, 
And  aught  that  wealth  or  lofty  lineage  claims, 
Appoar — a  highborn  and  a  welcome  guest 
To  Otho*s  haU  came  Lara  with  the  rest 
The  long  carousal  shakes  the  illumined  hall, 
Well  speeds  alike  the  banquet  and  the  ball ; 
And  the  gay  dance  of  bounding  Beauty's  train 
Links  grace  and  harmony  in  happiest  chain : 
Blest  are  the  early  hearts  and  gentle  bauds 
That  mingle  there  in  well-according  bands ; 
It  is  a  sight  the  careful  brow  might  smooth, 
And  make  Age  smile,  and  dream  itself  to  youth. 
And  Youth  forget  such  hour  was  passed  on  earth, 
So  springs  the  exulting  bosom  to  that  mirth  ! 


XXL 

And  Lara  gazed  on  these,  sedately  glad, 

His  brow  l^lied  him  if  his  soul  was  sad  ; 

And  hb  glance  followed  fast  each  fluttering  fair, 

Whose  steps  of  lightness  woke  no  echo  there : 

He  lean'd  against  the  lofty  pillar  nigh, 

With  folded  arms  and  long  attentive  eye, 

Nor  mark'd  a  glance  so  sternly  fix'd  on  his — 

III  brook'd  high  Lara  scrutiny  like  this  : 

At  length  he  caught  it — 'tis  a  face  unknown. 

But  seems  as  searching  his,  and  his  alone ; 

Prying  and  dark,  a  stranger's  by  his  mien, 

Who  still  till  now  had  gazed  on  him  unseen : 

At  length  encountering  meets  the  mutual  gaze 

Of  keen  inquiry,  and  of  mute  amaze  ; 

On  Lara's  glance  emotion  gathering  grew, 

As  if  distrusting  that  the  stranger  threw ; 

Along  the  stranger's  aspect,  fix*d  and  stem, 

Flash'd  more  than  thence  the  vulgar  eye  could  learn. 


XXIL 

"  'Tis  he !"  tlie  stranger  cried,  and  those  that  heard 
Re-echo'd  fast  and  far  tlie  whisper'd  word. 
"  'Tis  he !"— "  'Tis  who?"  they  question  far  and  near. 
Till  louder  accents  rung  on  Lara's  ear ; 
So  widely  spread,  few  bosoms  well  could  brook 
The  general  marvel,  or  that  single  look: 
But  Lara  stirr'd  not,  changed  not,  the  surprise 
That  sprung  at  first  to  his  arrested  eyes 
Seem'd  now  subsided,  neither  sunk  nor  raised 
Glanced  his  eye  round,  though  still  the  strauger  gazed ; 
And  drawing  nigh,  exclaimM,  with  haughty  sneer, 
"  'Tis  he  !— how  came  he  tlience  ? — ^what  doth  he 
hero?" 


XXIIL 

It  were  too  much  for  Lara  to  pass  by 

Such  questions,  so  repeated  fierce  and  high  ; 

With  look  collected,  but  with  accent  cold. 

More  mildly  firm  than  petulantly  bold, 

He  turn'd,  and  met  the  inquisitorial  tone — 

"  My  name  is  Lara !— when  thine  own  is  known, 


Doubt  not  my  fitting  answer  to  requite 
The  unlook'd  for  courtesy  of  such  a  knight 
'Tib  Lara  I — further  wouldst  thou  mariL  or  aak  ? 
I  shnn  no  question,  and  I  wear  no  mask." 

"  Thou  shunn'st  no  question !  Ponder — is  there  none 
Thy  heart  must  answer,  though  thine  ear  would  shun? 
And  deem'st  thou  me  unknown  too  7     Gaze  again  ! 
At  least  thy  memory  was  not  given  in  vain. 
Oh  !  never  canst  thou  cancel  half  her  debt, 
Eternity  forbids  thee  to  forget" 
With  slow  and  searching  glance  upon  his  face 
Grew  Lara's  eyes,  but  nothing  there  could  trace 
They  knew,  or  chose  to  know — with  dubious  look 
He  deign'd  no  answer,  but  his  head  he  shook, 
And  half  contemptuous  turn'd  to  pass  away  ; 
But  the  stem  stranger  motion'd  him  to  stay. 
"  A  word  I — I  charge  thee  stay,  and  answer  hero 
To  one,  who,  wert  thou  noble,  were  thy  peer  ; 
But  as  thou  wast  and  art — nay,  frown  not,  loni. 
If  false,  'tis  easy  to  disprove  the  word — 
But  as  thou  wast  and  art,  on  thee  looks  down 
Distmsts  thy  smiles,  but  shakes  not  at  thy  frown. 

Art  thou  not  he  7  whose  deeds ** 

"  Whatever  I  be, 
Words  wild  as  these,  accusers  like  to  thee, 
I  list  no  further ;  those  with  whom  they  weigh 
May  hear  the  rest,  nor  venture  to  gainsay 
The  wondrous  tale  no  doubt  thy  tongue  can  tell, 
Which  thus  begins  so  courteously  and  weU. 
Let  Otho  cherish  here  his  polish'd  guest. 
To  him  my  thanks  and  thoughts  shall  be  expreaa'd.'* 
And  here  their  wondering  host  hath  interposed — 
"  Whate'er  there  be  between  you  undisclosed, 
This  is  no  time  nor  fitting  place  to  mar 
The  mirthful  meeting  with  a  wordy  war. 
If  thou,  Sir  Ezzelin,  hast  aught  to  show 
Which  it  befits  Count  Lara's  ear  to  know. 
To-morrow,  here,  or  elsewhere,  as  may  best 
Beseem  your  mutual  judgmeut,  speak  the  rest ; 
I  pledge  myself  for  thee,  as  not  unknown. 
Though,  like  Count  Lara,  now  retum'd  aJone 
From  other  lands,  almost  a  stranger  grown ; 
And  if  from  Lara's  blood  and  gentle  birth 
I  augur  right  of  courage  and  of  worth. 
He  will  not  that  untainted  line  belie. 
Nor  au^t  that  knighthood  may  accord,  deny." 


"  To-morrow  be  it,"  Ezzelin  replied, 

"  And  here  our  several  worth  and  troth  be  tried : 

I  gage  my  Ufe,  my  falchion  to  attest 

My  words,  so  may  I  mingle  with  the  bless'd  !*• 

What  answers  Lara  7  to  its  centre  shrunk 

His  soul,  in  deep  abstraction  sudden  sunk ; 

The  words  of  many,  and  the  eyes  of  all 

That  there  were  gather'd,  seem'd  on  him  to  fall ; 

But  his  were  silent,  his  appear'd  to  stray 

In  far  forgetfulness  away — away — 

Alas  !  that  heedlessness  of  all  around 

Bespoke  remembrance  only  too  profound. 

XXIV. 

"  To-morrow ! — ay,  to-morrow !"  further  word 
Tlian  those  repeated  none  from  Lara  heard  ; 
Upon  his  brow  no  outward  passion  spoke  ; 
From  his  large  eye  no  flashing  anger  broke  ; 
Yet  there  was  something  fix'd  in  Uiat  low  tone. 
Which  show'd  resolve,  determined,  though  unkiioii 


Canto  i. 


LARA. 


123 


He  seized  his  cloak — his  head  he  slightly  bow*d, 
And  passing  Ezzelin,  he  left  the  crowd ; 
And,  OS  he  passed  hhn,  smiling  met  the  frown 
I  With  which  that  chieftain's  brow  would  bear  him  down : 
I   It  was  nor  smile  of  mirth,  nor  struggling  pride 
'   That  curbs  to  scorn  the  wrath  it  cannot  hide ; 
But  that  of  one  in  his  own  heart  secure 
Of  all  that  he  would  do  or  could  endure. 
•   Could  this  mean  peace  7  the  calmness  of  the  good  7 
I   Or  guilt  grown  old  in  desperate  hardihood  7 
Alas !  too  like  in  confidence  are  each, 
For  man  to  trust  to  mortal  look  or  speech ; 
From  deeds,  and  deeds  alone,  may  he  discern 
Truths  which  it  wrings  the  unpractised  heart  to  learn. 


XXV 
,   And  Lara  calPd  his  page,  and  went  his  way — 
'  Well  could  that  stripling  word  or  sign  obey : 
>   His  only  follower  from  those  climes  afar, 
!  Where  the  soul  glows  beneath  a  brighter  star ; 

For  Lara  left  the  shore  from  whence  ne  sprung, 
-   In  duty  patient,  and  sedate  though  young; 
I  Silent  as  him  he  served,  his  faith  appears 
Above  his  station,  and  beyond  his  years. 
'  Though  not  unknown  the  tongue  of  Lara's  land, 
In  such  from  him  he  rarely  heard  command  ; 
But  fleet  his  step,  and  clear  his  tones  would  come. 
When  Lara's  lip  breathed  forth  the  words  of  home : 
Those  accents,  as  his  native  mountains  dear, 
Awake  their  absent  echoes  in  his  ear. 
Friends',  kindred's,  parents',  wonted  voice  recall, 
Now  lost,  abjured,  for  one — 4us  friend,  his  all : 
For  htm  earth  now  disclosed  no  other  guide ; 
;   What  marvel  then  he  rarely  left  his  side  7 


XXVI. 

Liight  was  his  form,  and  darkly  delicate 

That  brow  whereon  his  native  sun  had  sate, 

But  had  not  mair'd,  though  in  his  beams  he  mw, 

I   Tlie    cheek   where   oft   the  unbidden   blush   shone 
through ; 
Tet  not  such  blush  as  mounts  when  health  would  show 
All  the  heart's  hue  in  that  delighted  glow  ; 
Bat  'twas  a  hectic  tint  of  secret  care 
That  for  a  burning  moment  fever'd  there ; 
And  the  wild  sparele  of  his  eye  seem'd  caught 
From  high,  and  lighten'd  with  electric  thought, 
Though  its  black  orb  those  long  low  lashes'  fringe 
Had  temper'd  with  a  melancholy  Unge ; 
Yet  less  of  sorrow  than  of  pride  was  there. 
Or,  if  'twere  grief,  a  grief  that  none  should  share : 
And  pleased  not  him  the  sports  that  please  his  age. 
The  tricks  of  youth,  the  frolics  of  the  page  ; 
For  hoan  on  Lara  he  would  fix  his  glance, 
As  all-forgotten  in  that  watchful  trance ; 
And  from  his  chief  withdrawn,  he  wander'd  lone, 
Brief  were  his  answers,  and  his  questions  none  ; 
His  walk  the  wood,  his  sport  some  foreign  book  ; 
His  resting-place  the  bank  that  curbs  the  brook : 

.   He  seem'd,  like  him  he  served,  to  live  apart 
From  an  that  lures  the  eye,  and  fills  the  heart ; 
To  know  no  brotheriiood,  and  take  from  earth 
No  gift  beyond  that  bitter  boon — onr  birth. 


XXVIL 
If  aoght  he  loved,  'twas  Lara ;  but  was  shown 
Hii  faith  in  reverence  and  in  deeds  alone ; 


In  mute  attention ;  and  his  care,  which  gness'd 

Each  wish,  fulfill'd  it  ere  the  tongue  express'd. 

Still  there  was  haughtiness  in  all  he  did, 

A  spirit  deep,  that  brook'd  not  to  be  chid ; 

His  zeal,  though  more  than  that  of  servile  hands. 

In  act  alone  obeys,  his  air  commands ; 

As  if  'twas  Lara's  less  than  his  desire 

That  thus  he  served,  but  surely  not  for  hire. 

Slight  were  the  tasks  enjoin'd  him  by  his  lord, 

To  hold  the  stimip,  or  to  bear  the  sword ; 

To  tune  his  lute,  or,  if  he  will'd  it  more, 

On  tomes  of  other  times  and  tongues  to  pore  ; 

But  ne'er  to  miugle  with  the  menial  train, 

To  whom  he  show'd  nor  deference  nor  disdain. 

But  that  well-worn  reserve  which  proved  he  knew 

No  sympathy  with  that  familiar  crew : 

His  soul,  whate'er  his  station  or  his  stem. 

Could  bow  to  Lara,  not  descend  to  them. 

Of  higher  birth  ho  seem'd,  and  better  days. 

Nor  mark  of  vulgar  toil  that  hand  betrays, 

So  femininely  white  it  might  bespeak 

Another  sex,  when  match'd  with  that  smooth  cheek, 

But  for  his  garb,  and  something  in  his  gaze, 

More  wild  and  high  than  woman's  eye  betrays ; 

A  latent  fierceness  that  far  more  became 

His  fiery  climate  than  his  tender  frame : 

True,  in  his  words  it  broke  not  from  his  breast. 

But  from  his  aspect  might  be  more  than  gness'd. 

Kaled  his  name,  though  rumor  said  he  bore 

Another  ere  he  left  his  mountain-shore  ; 

For  sometimes  he  would  hear,  however  ni^, 

That  name  repeated  loud  witliout  reply. 

As  unfamiliar,  or,  if  roused  again. 

Start  to  the  sound,  as  but  remember'd  then ; 

Unless  'twas  Lara's  wonted  voice  that  spake, 

For  then,  ear,  eyes,  and  heart  would  all  awake. 


XXVIIL 

He  had  look'd  down  upon  the  festive  hall, 

And  mark'd  that  sudden  strife  so  mark'd  of  all ; 

And  when  the  crowd  around  and  near  him  told 

Their  wonder  at  the  calmness  of  the  bold. 

Their  marvel  how  the  high -bom  Lara  bore 

Such  insult  from  a  stranger,  doubly  sore, 

The  color  of  young  KaleS  went  and  came. 

The  lip  of  ashes,  and  the  cheek  of  flame  ; 

And  o'er  his  brow  the  dampening  heart-drops  threw 

The  sickening  icinees  of  that  cold  dew. 

That  rises  as  the  busy  bosom  sinks 

With  heavy  thoughts  from  which  reflection  shrinka 

Yes — ^there  be  things  which  we  must  dream  and  dare, 

And  execute  ere  thought  be  half  aware  : 

Whate'er  might  Kaled's  be,  it  was  enow 

To  seal  his  lip,  but  agonize  his  brow. 

He  gazed  on  Ezzelin  till  Lara  cast 

That  sidelong  smile  upon  the  knight  he  pass'd : 

When  KaletTsaw  that  smile  his  visage  fell, 

As  if  on  something  recognised  right  well ; 

His  memory  read  in  sucn  a  meaning  more 

Than  Lara  s  aspect  unto  others  wore : 

Forward  he  sprung — a  moment,  both  were  gone, 

And  all  withm  that  hall  seem'd  left  alone ; 

Each  had  so  fix'd  his  eye  on  Lara's  mien, 

All  had  so  mix'd  their  feelings  with  that  scene. 

That  when  his  long  dark  shadow  through  the  porch 

No  moie  relieves  the  glare  of  yon  high  torch, 

Each  pulse  beats  quicker,  and  all  IxMoms  seem 

To  bound  as  doubting  from  too  black  a  dream, 


124 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  i. 


Sach  as  we  know  is  false,  yet  dread  in  sooth, 
Because  the  worst  is  ever  nearest  truth. 
And  they  are  frone — ^but  Ezzelin  is  there, 
With  thoughtful  visage  and  imperious  air; 
But  long  remained  not ;  ere  an  hour  expired 
He  waved  his  hand  to  Otho,  and  retired. 

XXIX. 

The  crowd  are  gone,  the  revellers  at  rest; 

The  courteous  host,  and  all-approving  guest, 

Again  to  that  accustom'd  couch  must  creep 

Where  joy  subsides,  and  sorrow  sighs  to  sleep, 

And  man,  o'erlabor'd  with  his  being's  strife, 

Shrinks  to  that  sweet  forgetfulnoss  of  life : 

There  lie  love's  feverish  hope,  and  cunning's  guile, 

Hate's  working  brain,  and  luU'd  ambitiou's  wUe ; 

O'er  each  vain  eye  oblivion's  pmious  wave. 

And  quench'd  existence  crouches  in  a  grave. 

What  better  name  may  slumber's  bed  become  ? 

Night's  sepulchre,  the  universal  home. 

Where  weakness,  strength,  vice,  virtue,  sunk  supine, 

Alike  in  naked  helplessness  recline ; 

Glud  for  a  while  to  heave  unconscious  breath. 

Yet  wake  to  wrestle  with  the  dread  of  death, 

And  shun,  though  day  but  dawn  on  ills  increased. 

That  sleep,  the  loveliest,  since  it  dreams  the  least 


LARA. 


OAlfTO  THE  8K00ND.' 


Night  wanes — the  vapon  round  the  mountains  curl'd 
Melt  into  mom,  and  Light  awakes  the  world. 
Man  has  another  day  to  swell  the  past. 
And  lead  hun  near  to  little,  but  his  last ; 
But  mighty  Nature  bounds  as  from  her  birth, 
Ttie  sun  is  in  the  heavens,  and  life  on  earth ; 
Flowers  in  the  valley,  splendor  in  the  beam, 
Health  on  the  gale,  and  freshness  in  the  stream. 
Immortal  man  !  behold  her  glon^  Rhine, 
And  cry,  exulting  inly,  "  They  are  thine !" 
Gaze  on,  while  yet  thy  gladden'd  eye  may  see  ; 
A  morrow  comes  when  they  an*  not  for  thee  : 
And  grieve  what  may  above  thy  senseless  bier, 
Nor  earth  nor  sky  wUl  yield  a  "tingle  tear ; 
Nor  cloud  shall  gatlier  more,  nor  leaf  shall  fall. 
Nor  gale  breathe  forth  one  sigh  for  thee,  for  all ; 
But  creeping  things  shall  revel  in  their  spoil, 
And  fit  thy  clay  to  fertilize  the  soil. 

II. 

'Tis  mom — 'tis  noon — assembled  in  the  hall. 
The  gather'd  chieftains  come  to  Otho's  call ; 
'Tis  now  the  promised  hour,  that  must  proclaim 
The  life  or  death  of  Lara's  future  fame ; 


1  [Lord  Byron  seems  to  have  taken  a  whimsical  pleasure 
,  in  disappointing,  by  his  second  Canto,  most  of  the  expecta- 
;  tions  which  he  had  excited  by  the  first.  For,  without  the 
.  resuscitation  of  Sir  Ezzelin,  Lara's  mvstcrlous  vision  in  his 
(  antique  hall  becomes  a  mere  useJess  piece  of  lumber,  inap- 

§hcable  to  any  intelligible  purpose.    The  character  of  Me- 
ora,  whom  we  had  been  satisfied  to  behold  very  contented- 
I  ly  domesticated  in  the  Pirate's  Island,  without  Inquiring 


When  Ezzelin  his  charge  may  here  unfold, 

And  whatsoe'er  the  tale,  it  must  be  told. 

His  faith  was  pledged,  and  Lara's  promise  given. 

To  meet  it  in  the  eye  of  man  and  heaven. 

Why  comes  he  not?    Such  truths  to  be  divulged, 

Methinks  the  accuser's  rest  is  long  indulged. 

HL 

The  hour  is  past,  and  Lara  too  is  there. 
With  self-confiding,  coldly  patient  air ; 
Why  comes  not  Ezzelin?    The  hour  is  past. 
And  murmurs  rise,  and  Otho's  brow  's  o'ercast 
"  I  know  my  friend  !  his  faith  I  cannot  fear, 
If  yet  he  be  on  earth,  expect  him  hero  ; 
The  roof  that  held  him  in  the  valley  ktands 
Between  my  own  and  noble  Lara's  lands ; 
My  halls  from  such  a  guest  had  honor  gain'd. 
Nor  had  Sir  Ezzelin  h»  host  disdam'd. 
But  that  some  previous  proof  forbade  his  stay. 
And  urged  him  to  prepare  against  to-day  ; 
The  word  I  pledged  for  his  I  pledge  again. 
Or  will  myself  r^eem  his  knighthood's  stain." 

He  ceased — and  Lara  answer'd,  "  I  am  here 

To  lend  at  thy  demand  a  listening  ear 

To  tales  of  evil  fh)m  a  stranger's  tongue. 

Whose  words  already  might  my  heart  have  wrung. 

But  that  I  deem'd  him  scarcely  less  than  mad. 

Or,  at  the  worst,  a  foe  ignobly  bad. 

I  know  him  not^ut  me  it  seems  ho  knew 

In  lands  where— but  I  must  not  trifle  too . 

Produce  this  babbler — or  redeem  the  pledge  ; 

Here  in  thy  hold,  and  with  thy  falchion's  edge." 

Proud  Otho  on  the  instant,  reddening,  threw 
His  glove  on  earth,  and  forth  his  sabre  flew. 
"  The  last  alternative  befits  me  best. 
And  thus  I  answer  for  mine  absent  guest" 

With  cheek  unchanging  from  its  sallow  gloom. 

However  near  his  own  or  other's  tomb ; 

With  hand,  whose  almost  careless  coolness  spoke 

Its  grasp  well-used  to  deal  the  sabre-stroke  ; 

Wim  eye,  though  calm,  determined  not  to  spare. 

Did  Lara  too  hw  willing  weapon  bare. 

In  vain  the  circling  chieftains  round  them  closed. 

For  Otho's  phrensy  would  not  be  opposed  ; 

And  from  his  lip  those  words  of  insult  fell — 

His  sword  is  good  who  can  maintain  them  well. 

IV. 

Short  was  the  conflict ;  furious,  blindly  rash. 
Vain  Otho  gave  his  bosom  to  the  gash  : 
He  bled,  and  fell ;  but  not  with  deadly  wound, 
Stretch'd  by  a  dextrous  sleight  along  the  ground. 
**  Demand  thy  life  .'"     He  answer'd  not :  and  then 
From  that  red  floor  he  ne'er  had  risen  agam. 
For  Lara's  brow  upon  the  moment  grew 
Almost  to  blackness  in  its  demon  hue ; 
And  fiercer  shook  his  angry  falchion  now 
Than  when  his  foe's  was  levell'd  at  his  brow  ; 


whence  or  why  she  had  emigrated  thither,  is,  by  meanf  of 
some  mysterious  relation  between  her  and  Sir  Ezzelin,  in- 
volved m  very  disagreeable  ambiguity  ;— and,  further,  the 
high-minded  and  generous  Conrad,  who  ha<l  preferred  ieath 
and  torture  to  life  and  liberty,  if  purchased  by  a  nightly 
murder,  is  degraded  into  a  vile  and  cowardly  assassin  ~ 
GsoROE  Ellis.] 


Canto  ii. 


LARA. 


125 


TheD  all  was  rteni  ooUoetadneas  and  art. 
Now  rose  the  unleaven'd  hatred  of  his  heart ; 
So  little  sparing  to  the  foe  he  fell'd, 
I   That  when  the  approaching  crowd  his  arm  withheld, 
He  almost  tam*d  the  thirsty  point  on  those, 
Who  thus  for  mercy  dared  to  interpose ; 
Bat  to  a  momeut*s  thought  that  puipose  bent ; 
Yet  look*d  he  on  him  smi  with  eye  intent, 
As  if  he  loathed  the  ineffectual  strife 
That  left  a  foe,  however  overthrown,  with  life ; 
As  if  to  search  how  far  the  wound  he  gave 
Had  sent  its  rictim  onward  to  his  grave. 


They  raised  the  bleeding  Otho,  and  the  Leech 
Forbade  all  present  question,  sign,  and  speech ; 
The  others  met  within  a  neighboring  hall. 
And  he,  incensed,  and  heedless  of  them  all, 
Tuti  jause  and  conqueror  in  this  sudden  fray. 
In  haughty  silence  slowly  strode  away ; 
He  bacVd  his  steed,  his  homeward  path  he  took. 
Nor  cast  on  Otho*s  towers  a  single  look. 

VI. 

But  where  was  he  ?  that  meteor  of  a  night. 
Who  menaced  but  to  disappear  with  light 
Where  was  thb  Ezzelin  7  who  came  and  went 
To  leave  no  other  trace  of  his  intent 
I   He  left  the  dome  of  Otho  long  ere  mom, 
I   In  darkness,  yet  so  well  the  path  was  worn 
,   He  could  not  miss  it :  near  his  dwelling  lay ; 
I    But  there  he  was  not,  and  with  coming  day 
Came  fast  inquiry,  which  unfolded  nai^t 
Except  the  absence  of  the  chief  it  sou^t 
,    A  chamber  tenantless,  a  steed  at  rest, 
His  host  alarmM,  his  murmuring  squires  distreas'd : 
Their  search  extends  along,  around  the  path, 
In  dread  to  meet  the  marks  of  prowlers*  wrath : 
But  none  are  there,  and  not  a  brake  hath  borne 
Nor  gout  of  blood,  nor  shred  of  mantle  torn ; 
Nor  fall  nor  struggle  hath  defaced  the  grass, 
Which  still  retains  a  mark  where  murder  was ; 
Nor  dabbling  fingers  left  to  tell  the  tale, 
The  bitter  print  of  each  convulsive  nail. 
When  agonized  hands  that  cease  to  guard, 
Wound  in  that  pang  the  smoothness  of  the  sward. 
Some  such  had  been,  if  here  a  life  was  reft, 
But  these  were  not ;  and  doubting  hope  is  left ; 
And  strange  suspicion,  whispering  Lara's  name, 
Now  daily  mutters  o*er  his  blacken'd  fame ; 
Tlien  sudden  silent  when  his  form  appeared, 
I    Awaits  the  absence  of  the  thing  it  fear'd 
I    Agam  its  wonted  wondering  *<)  renew, 
i-  And  dye  conjecture  with  a  darker  hue. 
I 

VII. 
Days  roll  along,  and  Otho*s  woonds  are  heal*d, 
Bat  not  his  prS^ ;  and  hate  no  more  concealed : 
He  was  a  man  of  power,  and  Lara's  foe, 
The  friend  of  all  who  sought  to  work  him  wo, 
And  from  his  country's  justice  now  demands 
Ac^unt  of  Ezzelm  at  Lara's  hands. 
Who  else  than  Lara  could  have  cause  to  fear 
His  presence?  who  had  made  him  disappear, 
If  not  the  man  on  whom  his  menaced  charge 
Had  sate  too  deeply  were  he  left  at  large  7 
The  general  romor  ignorantly  loud, 
The  mystery  dearest  to  the  curious  crowd ; 


The  seeming  fiiendlessnoss  of  him  who  strove 
To  win  no  confidence,  and  wake  no  love ; 
The  sweeping  fierceneas  which  his  soul  betray'd,^ 
The  skill  with  which  he  wielded  his  keen  blade ; 
Where  had  his  arm  unwarlike  caught  that  art  i 
Where  had  that  fierceness  grown  upon  his  heart? 
For  it  was  not  the  blind  capricious  rage 
A  word  can  kindle  and  a  word  assuage ; 
But  the  deep  working  of  a  soul  unmix'd 
With  aught  of  pity  where  its  wrath  had  fix'd ; 
Such  as  long  power  and  overgorged  success 
Concentrates  mto  all  that's  merciless : 
These,  link'd  with  that  desire  whic;  ever  sways 
Mankind,  the  rather  to  condemn  than  praise. 
'Gainst  Lara  gathering  raised  at  length  a  storm, 
Such  08  himself  might  fear,  and  foes  would  form, 
And  he  must  answer  for  the  absent  head 
Of  one  that  haunts  him  still,  alive  or  dead. 


VIIL 

Within  that  land  was  many  a  maleoontent, 

Who  cursed  the  tyranny  to  which  he  bent ; 

That  soil  full  many  a  wringing  despot  saw, 

Who  work'd  his  wantonness  in  form  of  law ; 

Long  war  without  and  frequent  broil  within 

Had  made  a  path  for  blood  and  giant  sin. 

That  waited  but  a  signal  to  begin 

New  havoc,  such  as  civil  discord  blends, 

Which  knows  no  neuter,  owns  but  foes  or  friends ; 

Fix'd  in  his  feudal  fortress  each  was  lord, 

In  word  and  deed  obey'd,  in  soul  abhorr'd. 

Thus  Lara  had  inherited  his  lands, 

And  with  them  pining  hearts  and  sluggish  hands ; 

But  that  long  absence  from  his  native  clime 

Had  left  him  stainless  of  oppression's  crime, 

And  now,  diverted  by  his  milder  sway, 

AU  dread  by  slow  degrees  had  worn  away. 

The  menials  felt  their  usual  awe  alone, 

But  more  for  him  than  them  that  fear  was  grown ; 

They  deem'd  him  now  unhappy,  though  at  first 

Their  evil  judgment  augur'd  of  the  worst, 

And  each  long  restless  night,  and  silent  mood, 

Was  traced  to  sickness,  fed  by  solitude : 

And  though  his  lonely  habits  threw  of  late 

Gloom  o'er  his  chamber,  cheerful  was  his  gate  ; 

For   thence    the  wretched    ne'er    nnsoothed   with 

drew, 
For  them,  at  least,  his  soul  compassion  knew. 
Cold  to  the  great,  contemptuous  to  the  high. 
The  humble  pass'd  not  his  unheeding  eye ; 
Much  he  would  speak  not,  but  beneath  his  roof 
They  found  asylum  oft,  and  ne'er  reproof. 
And  they  who  watch'd  might  mark   that,  day  by 

day, 
Some  new  retainers  gathered  to  his  sway ; 
But  most  of  late,  since  Ezzelin  was  lost, 
He  play'd  the  courteous  lord  and  bounteous  host : 
Perchance  his  strife  with  Otho  made  him  dread 
Some  snare  prepared  for  his  obnoxious  head ; 
Whatever  his  view,  his  favor  more  obtains 
With  these,  the  people,  than  his  fellow  thanes. 
If  this  were  policy,  so  far  'twas  sound, 
The  million  judged  but  of  him  as  they  found ; 
From  him  by  sterner  chiefis  to  exile  dnven 
They  but  required  a  shelter,  and  'twas  given. 
By  him  no  peasant  moum'd  his  rifled  cot. 
And  scarce  tho  Serf  coukl  murmur  o'er  his  lot ; 
With  him  old  avarice  found  its  hoard  secure, 
With  him  contempt  forbore  to  mock  the  poor ; 


126 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


Youth  pTMent  cheer  &nd  promised  recompense 

D^tain'd,  till  aH  too  late  to  part  from  thence ; 

To  hate  he  offered,  with  the  comiugr  change, 

The  deep  rerenrion  of  delay'd  revenge ; 

To  love,  long  baffled  by  the  unequal  match, 

The  well-won  charms  succew  was  sure  to  siitch. 

All  now  was  ripe,  he  waits  but  to  proclaim 

That  slavery  nothing  which  was  still  a  name. 

The  moment  came,  the  hour  when  Otho  thought 

Secure  at  last  the  vengeance  which  he  sou^t : 

His  summons  found  the  destined  criminal 

Beqfirt  by  thousands  in  his  swarming  hall, 

Fn*Rh  from  their  feudal  fetters  newly  riven. 

Defying  earth,  and  confident  of  heaven. 

Til  at  morning  he  had  freed  the  soil -bound  slaves 

Who  dig  no  land  for  tyrants  but  their  graves ! 

Such  is  their  cry— some  watchword  for  the  fight 

Must  vindicate  the  wrong,  and  warp  the  right: 

Religion — freedom — ^vengeance — what  you  will, 

A  word's  euough  to  raise  mankind  to  kill ; 

Somf  factious  phrase  by  cunning  caught  and  qiread 

That  guilt  may  reign,  and  wolves  and  worms  be  fed ! 


IX. 

Throughout  that  clime  the  feudal  chiefe  had  gain'd 
Sucii  sway,  their  infant  monarch  hardly  reigird  ; 
Now  was  the  hour  for  faction's  rebel  growth, 
The  Serfs  coutemn'd  the  one,  and  hated  both : 
Tiiey  waited  but  a  leader,  and  they  found 
One  to  their  cause  inseparably  bound  ; 
By  circumstance  compelPd  to  plunge  again, 
In  self-defence,  amidst  the  strife  of  men. 
Cut  oflf  by  some  mysterious  fate  from  those 
Whom  birth  and  nature  mecmt  not  for  his  foes, 
Had  Lara  from  that  night,  to  him  accursed, 
Prepared  to  meet,  but  not  alone,  the  worst : 
Some  reason  urged,  whate'er  it  was,  to  shun 
Inquiry  into  deeds  at  distance  done ; 
By  mingling  witli  his  own  the  cause  of  ally 
E'en  if  he  faird,  he  still  delay'd  his  fall. 
The  sullen  calm  that  long  his  bosom  kept. 
The  storm  tliat  once  had  spent  itself  and  slept 
Roused  by  events  that  seem'd  foredoomed  to  urge 
jJUl  gloomy  fortunes  to  their  utmost  verge, 
wfam  forth,  and  made  him  all  he  once  had  been, 
Aud  is  again ;  he  only  changed  the  scene. 
L^ht  care  had  he  for  life,  aud  less  for  fame. 
But  not  lees  fitted  for  the  desperate  game : 
He  deem'd  himself  mark*d  out  for  others'  hate. 
And  mock'd  at  ruin  so  they  shared  his  fate. 
What  cared  he  for  the  freedom  of  the  crowd? 
He  raised  the  humble  but  to  bend  the  proud. 
Ho  had  hoped  quiet  in  his  sullen  lair. 
But  man  and  destiny  beset  him  there : 
Inured  to  hunters,  he  was  found  at  bay ; 
And  they  must  kill,  they  cannot  snare  the  prey. 
Stem,  unambitious,  silent,  he  had  been 
Henceforth  a  calm  spectator  of  life's  scene ; 
But  dragged  agam  upon  the  arena,  stood 
A  leader  not  unequsd  to  the  feud ; 
In  voice — mien — gesture— savage  nature  spoks, 
And  from  his  eye  the  gladiator  broke. 


What  boots  the  oft-repeated  tale  of  strife. 
The  feast  of  vultures,  and  the  waste  of  life? 
Tne  varying  fortune  of  each  separate  field. 
The  fierce  that  vanquish,  and  the  faint  that  yield? 


The  smoking  ruin,  and  the  crumbled  wall  7 

In  this  the  struggle  was  the  same  with  all ; 

Save  that  distempered  passions  lent  their  force 

In  bitterness  that  banbh'd  all  remorse. 

None  sued,  for  Mercy  knew  her  cry  was  vain. 

The  captive  died  upon  the  battle-slam : 

In  either  cause,  pne  rage  alone  possessed 

The  empire  of  the  alternate  victor's  breast ; 

And  they  that  smote  for  freedom  or  for  sway, 

Deem'd  few  were  slain,  while  more  remained  to  slay. 

It  was  too  late  to  check  the  wasting  brand, 

And  Desolation  reap'd  the  famish'd  land ; 

The  torch  was  lighted,  and  the  flame  was  spread. 

And  Carnage  smiled  upon  her  daily  dead. 


XL 

Fresh  with  the  nerve  the  new-bom  impulse  strung. 

Hie  first  success  to  Lara's  numbers  clung : 

But  that  vain  victory  hath  ruin'd  all ; 

They  form  no  longer  to  their  leader's  call : 

In  blind  confusion  on  the  foe  they  press. 

And  think  to  snatch  is  to  secure  success. 

The  lust  of  booty,  and  the  thirst  of  hate. 

Lure  on  the  broken  brigands  to  their  fate : 

In  vain  he  doth  whate'er  a  chief  may  do. 

To  check  the  headlong  fury  of  that  crew ; 

In  vaui  their  stubbom  ardor  he  would  tame. 

The  hand  that  kindles  cannot  quench  the  flame ; 

The  wary  foe  alone  hath  tura'd  their  mood. 

And  shown  their  rashness  to  that  erring  brood : 

The  feign'd  retreat,  the  niffhtly  ambuscade, 

l^e  daily  harass,  and  the  fight  delay'd. 

The  long  privation  of  the  hoped  supply, 

The  tenth  i-H  rest  beneath  tlie  humid  aky. 

The  stubboiu  wall  that  mocks  the  leaguer's  art. 

And  palls  tlie  patience  of  his  baffled  heart. 

Of  these  tliey  had  not  deem'd :  the  battle-day 

They  could  encounter  as  a  veteran  may  ; 

But  more  prefen^d  the  fury  of  the  strife. 

And  present  death,  to  hourly  suffering  life : 

And  famine  wrings,  and  fever  sweeps  away 

His  numbers  melting  fast  from  their  array ; 

Intemperate  triumph  fades  to  discontent. 

And  Lara's  soul  alone  seems  still  unbent : 

But  few  remain  to  aid  his  voice  and  hand. 

And  thousands  dwindled  to  a  scanty  band : 

Desperate,  though  few,  the  last  and  best  remain'd 

To  mourn  the  diiscipline  they  late  disdain'd. 

One  hope  survives,  the  frontier  is  not  far. 

And  thence  they  may  escape  from  native  war ; 

And  bear  within  them  to  the  neighboring  state 

An  exile's  sorrows,  or  an  outlaw's  hate : 

Hard  is  the  task  their  father-land  to  quit, 

But  harder  still  to  perish  or  submit 


XIL 

It  is  resolved — they  march — consenting  Night 
Guides  with  her  star  their  dim  and  torchless  fl^fat : 
Already  they  percehre  its  tranquil  beam 
Sleep  on  the  surface  of  the  barrier  stream ; 
Already  they  descry — Is  yon  the  bank? 
Away !  'tis  lined  with  many  a  hostile  rank. 
Return  or  fly ! — What  glitters  in  the  rear? 
'TIS  Otho's  banner — the  pursueres  spear ! 
Are  those  the  shepherds'  fires  upon  the  height  ? 
Alas !  they  blaze  too  widely  for  the  flight : 
Cut  off*  from  hope,  and  compassed  in  the  toil, 
Less  blood  perchance  hath  bought  a  richer  spoil ! 


Canto  n. 


LARA. 


127 


XIIL 


A  moment's  panae-  -'tis  but  to  breathe  their  band, 
Or  shall  they  onward  press,  or  here  withstand  7 
It  matters  little — if  they  charge  the  foes 
Who  by  their  border-stream  their  march  oppose. 
Some  few,  perchance,  may  break  and  pass  the  line, 
However  link'd  to  baffle  such  design. 
*'  The  charge  be  ours !  to  wait  for  their  assault 
Were  fate  well  worthy  of  a  coward's  halt." 
Forth  flies  each  sabre,  rein'd  is  every  steed, 
And  the  next  word  shall  scarce  outstrip  the  deed : 
In  the  next  tone  of  Lara's  gathering  breath 
How  many  shall  but  hear  the  voice  of  death ! 

XIV. 

His  blade  is  bared« — in  him  there  is  an  air 

As  deep,  bat  far  too  tranquil  for  despair ; 

A  something  of  indiflfereuce  more  than  then 

Becomes  the  bravest,  if  they  feel  for  men. 

He  tum'd  his  eye  on  Kaled,  ever  near. 

And  still  too  faithful  to  betray  one  fear ; 

Perchance  'twas  but  the  moon's  dim  twilight  threw 

Along  his  aspect  an  unwonted  hue 

Of  mournful  paleness,  whose  deep  tint  express'd 

The  truth,  and  not  the  terror  of  his  breast. 

This  Lara  mark'd,  and  laid  his  hand  on  his: 

It  trembled  not  in  such  an  hour  as  tliis  ; 

His  Up  was  silent,  scarcely  beat  his  heart, 

His  eye  alone  proclaim'd,  '*  We  will  not  part ! 

Thy  band  may  perish,  or  thy  friends  may  flee. 

Farewell  to  life,  but  not  adieu  to  thee !" 

The  word  hath  peas'd  his  lips,  and  onward  driven, 
Poure  the  link'd  band  through  ranks  asunder  riven ; 
Well  has  each  steed  obeyed  the  armed  heel. 
And  flash  the  scimitars,  and  rings  the  steel ; 
Outuumber'd,  not  outbraved,  they  still  oppose 
Despair  to  daring,  and  a  front  to  foes ; 
And  blood  is  mingled  with  the  dashing  stream, 
MThich  runs  all  ndly  till  the  morning  beam. 


XV. 

Commanding,  aiding,  animating  all, 
Where  foe  a^^ar'd  to  press,  or  friend  to  fall, 
I  Cheers  Lara's  voice,  and  waves  or  strikes  his  steel. 
Inspiring  hope  himself  had  ceased  to  feet 
None  Aed,  for  well  they  knew  that  flight  were  vain  ; 
But  those  that  waver  turn  to  smite  again, 
While  yet  they  find  the  firmest  of  the  foe 
Recoil  before  their  leader's  look  and  blow : 
Now  girt  with  numbeis,  now  almost  alone, 
He  foUs  their  ranks,  or  reunites  his  own  ; 
Himself  he  spared  notr— once  they  seem'd  to  fly — 
Now  was  the  time,  he  waved  his  hand  on  high. 
And  diook — Why  sudden  droops  that  plumed  crest? 
The  shaft  is  q>ed — the  airow's  in  his  breast ! 
That  fatal  gesture  left  the  unguarded  side, 
And  Death  hath  stricken  down  yon  arm  of  pride. 
The  word  of  trhmiph  fainted  £rom  his  tongue ; 
That  hand,  so  raised,  how  droopingly  it  hung ! 
Bat  yet  the  sword  instinctively  retains, 
Though  from  its  fellow  shrink  the  falling  rems ; 
I  These  Kaled  snatches :  dizzy  with  the  Mow, 
'  And  senseless  bending  o'er  his  saddle-bow, 
I  Perceives  not  Lara  that  his  anxious  page 
i  BeguOes  his  chai^r  £rom  the  combat's  rage : 

Meantime  his  followers  charge,  and  charge  again ; 
'  Too  mix'd  the  slayen  now  to  heed  the  slain ! 


XVI 


Day  glimmers  on  the  dying  and  the  dead. 
The  cloven  cuirass,  and  the  helmleas  head ; 
The  war-horse  masterless  is  on  the  earth, 
And  that  last  gasp  hath  burst  his  bloody  girth  ; 
And  near,  yet  quivering  with  what  life  remaiu'd, 
The  heel  that  urged  him  and  the  hand  that  rein'd ; 
And  some  too  near  that  rolling  torrent  He, 
Whose  waters  mock  the  lip  of  those  that  die  ; 
That  panting  thirst  which  scorches  m  the  breath 
Of  those  that  die  the  soldier's  fiery  death, 
In  vain  impels  the  burning  mouth  to  crave 
One  drop — ^the  last — ^to  cool  it  for  the  grave  ; 
With  feeble  and  convulsive  cflR>rt  swept. 
Their  limbs  along  the  crimson'd  tuif  have  crept ; 
The  faint  remains  of  life  such  struggles  waste, 
But  yet  they  reach  the  stream,  and  bend  to  taste : 
They  feel  its  freshness,  and  almost  partaker- 
Why  pause  ?     No  further  thirst  have  they  to  slake— 
It  is  unqnench'd,  and  yet  they  feel  it  not ; 
It  was  an  agony — but  now  foryrot ! 


XVIL 

Beneath  a  lime,  remoter  from  the  scene, 

Where  but  for  him  that  strife  had  never  been, 

A  breathing  but  devoted  warrior  lay : 

'Twas  Lara  bleeding  fast  from  life  away. 

His  follower  once,  and  now  his  only  guide, 

Kneels  Kaled  watchful  o'er  his  welling  side, 

And  with  his  scarf  would  stanch  the  tides  that  rush. 

With  each  convulsion,  in  a  blacker  gush  ; 

And  then,  as  his  faint  breathing  waxes  low, 

In  feebler,  not  less  fatal  tricklings  flow : 

He  scarce  can  speak,  but  motions  him  'tis  vain, 

And  merely  adds  another  throb  to  puin. 

He  clasps  the  hand  that  pang  which  would  assuage, 

And  sadly  smiles  his  thanks  to  that  daric  page, 

Who  nothing  fears,  nor  feels,  nor  heeds,  nor  sees. 

Save  that  damp  brow  which  rests  upon  his  knees  ; 

Save  that  pale  aspect,  where  the  eye,  though  dim, 

Hekl  all  the  Ught  that  shone  on  earth  for  him. 


XVIIL 

The  foe  arrives,  who  long  had  search'd  the  field, 
Their  triumph  naught  tiU  Lara  too  should  yield ; 
They  would  remove  him,  but  they  see  'twere  vain, 
And  he  regards  them  with  a  cahn  disdain. 
That  rose  to  reconcile  him  with  his  fate, 
And  that  escape  to  death  from  living  hato : 
And  Otho  comes,  and  leaping  from  his  steed, 
Looks  on  the  bleeding  foe  that  made  him  bleed, 
And  questions  of  his  state ;  he  answeis  not, 
Scarce  glances  on  him  as  on  one  forgot, 
And  turns  to  Kaled : — each  remaining  word 
They  understood  not,  if  distinctly  heard ; 
I  His  dying  tones  are  in  that  other  tongue, 
I  To  which  some  strange  remembrance  wildly  climg. 
I  They  spake  of  other  scenes,  but  what — is  known 
I  To  Kaled,  whom  their  meaning  reach'd  alone  ; 
And  he  replied,  though  faintly,  to  their  sound, 
While  gazed  the  rest  m  dumb  amazement  round : 
,  They  seem'd  even  then — that  twam — unto  the  last 
'  To  half  forget  the  present  in  the  past 
To  share  between  themselves  some  separate  fate, 
Whose  dariuieas  nono  beside  should  penetrate. 


128 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Canto  ii. 


XIX. 

Their  words  though  faint  were  many — ^from  the  tone 
Tlieir  import  those  who  heard  could  judge  alone ; 
From  this,  you  might  have  deemed  young  Kaled's 

death 
More  near  than  Lara's  by  his  voice  and  breath, 
So  sad,  so  deep,  and  hesitating  broke 
The  accents  his  scarce-moving  pale  lips  spoke ; 
But  Lara^o  •  ^ice,  though  low,  at  first  was  clear 
And  calm,  till  murmuring  death  gasp'd  hoarsely  near: 

j   But  from  his  visage  little  could  we  guess, 

I   So  unrepentant,  dark,  and  passionless, 

I   Save  that  when  struggling  nearer  to  his  last, 
Upon  that  page  hie  eye  was  kindly  cast ; 
And  once,  as  Kaled's  answering  accents  ceased, 
Rose  Lara's  hand,  and  pointed  to  the  East : 

1  Whether  (as  then  the  breaking  sun  from  hirii 
Roll'd  back  the  clouds)  the  rooirofw  caught  his  eye. 
Or  that  'twas  chance,  or  some  remember*d  scene. 
That  raised  his  arm  to  point  where  such  had  been. 
Scarce  Kaled  seem'd  to  know,  but  tum'd  away. 
As  if  his  heart  abhorr'd  that  coming  day, 
And  shrunk  his  glance  before  that  morning  light. 
To  look^on  Lanrs  brow — where  all  grew  night 
Yet  sense  seem'd  left,  though  better  were  its  loss; 
For  when  one  near  display'd  the  absolving  cross, 
And  proffer'd  to  his  touch  the  holy  bead. 
Of  which  his  parting  soul  might  own  the  need, 
He  look'd  upon  it  with  an  eye  profane. 
And  smiled— Heaven  pardon  !  if  'twere  with  disdain : 
And  Kaled,  though  he  spoke  not,  nor  withdrew 
From  Lara's  face  his  fix'd  despairing  view, 
With  brow  repulsive,  and  with  gesture  swift. 
Flung  back  the  hand  which  held  the  sacred  gift. 
As  if  such  but  disturb'd  the  expiring  man. 
Nor  seem'd  to  know  his  life  but  then  began. 
That  life  of  Immortality,  secure 
To  none,  save  them  whose  faith  in  Christ  is  sure. 

XX. 

But  gasping  heaved  the  breatli  that  Lara,  drew. 
And  dull  the  film  along  his  dim  eye  grew ; 
His  limbs  eftretch'd  fluttering,  and  his  head  droop'd  o'er 
The  weak  yet  still  untiring  knee  that  bore ; 

tipreas'd  the  hand  he  held  upon  his  heart — 
lieats  no  more,  but  Kaled  will  not  part 
With  the  cold  grasp,  but  feels,  and  feels  in  vam. 
For  that  faint  throb  which  answers  not  again. 
"  It  beats !" — Away,  thou  dreamer !  he  is  gone^ 
It  once  was  Lara  which  thou  look'st  upon. 

XXI. 

He  gazed,  as  if  not  yet  had  pass'd  away 

The  haughty  spirit  of  that  humble  clay  ; 

And  those  around  have  roused  him  from  hts  trance. 

But  cannot  tear  from  thence  his  fixed  glance ; 


I  [The  death  of  Lara  is,  by  far,  the  finest  passage  in  the 
poem,  and  is  fully  equal  to  any  thing  else  which  the  author 
ever  wrote.  The  physical  horror  of  the  event,  though  de- 
scribed with  a  temblc  force  and  fidelity,  is  both  relieved 
and  enhanced  by  the  beautiful  pictures  of  mental  energy 
and  affection  with  which  it  is  combined.  The  whole  sequel 
of  the  poem  is  written  with  equal  vigor  and  feeling,  and  may 
b«!  put  in  competition  with  any  thing  that  poetry  has  pro- 
duced, in  point  either  of  pathos  or  energy. —Jeffrey.] 

«  The  event  in  this  section  was  suggested  by  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  death,  or  rather  burial,  of  the  duke  of  Gandia. 
The  most  interesting  and  particular  account  of  it  is  given 
by  Burchard,  and  is  in  substance  as  follows ;— "  On  the 
eighth  day  of  June,  the  Cardinal  of  Valenza  and  the  Duke 
Of  Gandia,  sons  of  the  Pope,  supped  with  their  mother, 


And  when,  in  raising  him  from  where  he  bore 
Within  his  arms  the  form  that  felt  no  more. 
He  saw  the  head  his  breast  woidd  still  sustain. 
Roll  down  Uke  earth  to  earth  upon  the  plain ; 
He  did  not  dash  himself  thereby,  nor  tear 
The  glossy  tendrils  of  his  raven  hair, 
But  strove  to  stand  and  gaze,  but  reel'd  and  fell, 
Scarce  breathing  more  than  that  he  loved  so  well. 
Than  that  he  loved  !     Oh  !  never  yet  beneath 
The  breast  of  man  such  trusty  love  may  breathe ! 
That  trying  moment  hath  at  once  rcveal'd 
The  secret  long  and  yet  but  half  conceal'd ; 
In  baring  to  revive  that  lifeless  breast. 
Its  grief  seem'd  ended,  but  the  sex  confess'd ; 
And  life  retum'd,  and  Kaled  felt  no  shame — 
What  now  to  her  was  Womanhood  or  Fame  ? 


XXIL 

And  Lara  sleeps  not  where  his  fathers  deep, 

But  where  he  died  his  grave  was  dug  as  deep ; 

Nor  is  his  mortal  slimiber  lees  profoimd. 

Though  priest   nor  bless'd,  nor  marble  deck'd  the 

mound ; 
And  he  was  moum'd  by  one  whose  quiet  grief. 
Leas  loud,  outlasts  a  people's  for  their  chief. 
Vain  was  all  question  ask'd  her  of  the  past. 
And  vain  e'en  menace— silent  to  the  last ; 
She  told  nor  whence,  nor  why  she  left  behind 
Her  all  for  one  who  seem'd  but  little  kind. 
Why  did  she  love  him  ?    Curious  fool ! — be  still — 
Is  human  love  the  growth  of  human  will  ? 
To  her  he  might  be  gentleness ;  the  stem 
Have  deeper  thoughts  than  your  dull  eyes  discern, 
And  when  they  love,  your  smilers  guess  not  how 
Beats  the  strong  heart,  though  less  the  lips  avow. 
They  were  not  common  links,  that  fonn'd  the  chain 
That  bound  to  Lara  Kaled's  heart  and  brain ; 
But  that  wild  tale  she  brook'd  not  to  unfold. 
And  seal'd  is  now  each  lip  that  coiUd  have  told. 

XXIM. 

They  laid  him  in  the  eartli,  and  on  his  breast. 
Besides  the  woimd  that  sent  his  soiU  to  rest, 
They  foimd  the  scattered  dints  of  many  a  scar. 
Which  were  not  planted  there  in  recent  war ; 
Where'er  had  pass'd  his  simimer  yeare  of  life. 
It  seems  they  vanish'd  in  a  land  of  strife ; 
But  all  unknown  his  glory  or  his  guilt, 
These  only  told  that  somewhere  blood  was  spilt. 
And  Ezzelin,  who  might  have  spoke  the  past, 
Retum'd  no  more — that  night  appear'd  his  last 

XXIV. 

Upon  that  night  (a  peasant's  is  the  tale) 
A  Serf  that  croes'd  the  intervening  vale,' 


Vanozza,  near  the  church  of  .S.  Pietro  ad  mncula ;  several 
other  persons  being  present  at  tlie  entertainment.  A  late 
hour  approaching,  and  the  cardinal  having  reminded  his 
brother  that  it  was  time  to  return  to  the  apostolic  palace, 
they  mounted  their  horses  or  mules,  with  only  a  tew  at- 
tendants, and  proceeded  together  as  fisr  as  the  palace  of 
Cardinal  Ascanio  Sforxa,  when  the  duke  informed  the  car- 
dinal that,  before  he  returned  home,  he  had  to  pay  a  visit 
of  pleasure.  Dismissing  therefore  all  his  attendants,  ex- 
cepting his  $taflUro„  or  footman,  and  a  person  in  a  mask, 
who  had  paid  nim  a  visit  whilst  at  supper,  and  who,  during 
the  space  of  a  month  or  thereabouts,  previous  to  this  time, 
had  called  upon  him  almost  daily,  at  the  apostoUc  palace, 
he  took  this  person  behind  him  on  his  mule,  and  proceeded 
to  the  sUeet  of  the  Jews,  where  he  quitted  his  servant, 
directing  him  to  remain  there  until  a  certain  hour ;  when, 


Canto  ii. 


LARA. 


129 


When  Cyndiia'B  light  almost  gave  way  to  moni) 
And  nearly  veil'd  in  mist  her  waning  horn ; 
A  Serf,  that  rose  betimes  to  thread  &e  wood, 
And  hew  the  bough  that  bought  his  children's  food, 
Passed  by  the  river  that  divides  the  plain 
Of  Otho*8  lands  and  Lara's  broad  domam: 
He  heard  a  tramp — a  horse  and  horseman  broke 
From  out  the  wood — before  him  was  a  cloak 
Wrapped  round  some  burden  at  his  saddle>bow, 
Bent  was  his  head,  and  hidden  was  his  brow. 
Roused  by  the  sudden  sight  at  such  a  time, 
And  some  foreboding  that  it  might  be  crime. 
Himself  unheeded  watch'd  the  stranger's  course. 
Who  reach'd  the  river,  bounded  from  his  horse, 
And  lifting  thence  the  burden  which  he  bore, 
Heaved  up  the  bank,  and  dash'd  it  from  the  shore. 
Then  paused,  and  look'd,  and  tum'd,  and  seem'd  to 

watch, 
And  still  another  hurried  glance  would  snatch, 
And  follow  with  his  step  ue  stream  that  ilow'd. 
As  if  even  yet  too  much  its  surface  showed : 
At  once  he  started,  stoop'd,  around  him  strown 
The  winter  floods  had  scatter'd  heaps  of  stone ; 
Of  these  the  heaviest  thence  he  gather'd  there, 
And  slung  them  with  a  more  than  common  care. 
Meantime  the  Serf  had  crept  to  where  unseen 
Himself  might  safely  mark  what  this  might  mean ; 
He  caught  a  glimpse,  as  of  a  floating  breast. 
And  something  glitter'd  starlike  on  the  vest ; 
But  ere  he  well  could  mark  the  buoyant  trunk, 
A  massy  fragment  smote  it,  and  it  sunk : 
It  rose  again,  but  indistinct  to  view. 
And  left  the  waters  of  a  purple  hue. 
Then  deeply  disappear'd :  the  horseman  gazed 
Till  ebb'd  the  latest  eddy  it  had  raised ; 
Then  turning,  vaulted  on  his  pawing  steed. 
And  instant  spurr'd  him  into  panting  speed. 
His  face  was  mask'd — the  features  of  the  dead, 
If  dead  it  were,  escaped  the  observer's  dread  ; 
But  if  in  sooth  a  star  its  bosom  bore. 


if  he  did  not  retom,  be  might  repair  to  the  palace.  The 
duke  then  seated  the  person  in  the  masK  behind  him,  and 
rode,  I  know  not  whitlier ;  but  in  that  night  he  was  assassi- 
nated, and  thrown  into  the  river.  The  servant,  after  having 
been  dismissed,  was  also  assaulted  and  mortally  wounded ; 
and  although  he  was  attended  with  great  care,  yet  such  was 
his  situation,  that  he  could  give  no  intelligible  account  of 
what  bad  t>efallen  his  master.  In  the  morning,  the  duke 
not  having  returned  t«  the  palace,  his  servants  began  to  be 
ilarroed :  anc  ^ne  of  them  informed  the  pontiff  of  Uie  even- 
ing excursion  of  nis  sons^  and  that  the  duke  had  not  yet 
made  his  appearance.  This  gave  the  pope  no  small  anxiety ; 
but  he  conjectured  that  tlie  duke  had  been  attracted  by 
some  courtesan  to  pass  the  night  with  her.  and,  not  choosing 
to  quit  the  house  in  open  day,  had  waited  till  the  following 
evening  to  return  home.  When,  however,  the  evening 
arrived,  and  he  found  himself  disappointed  m  his  expecta- 
tions, he  became  deeply  afflicted,  and  began  to  make  inquiries 
from  different  persons,  whom  he  ordered  to  attend  him  for 
that  purpose.  Amongst  these  was  a  man  named  Giorgio 
Sehiavoni,  who,  having  discharged  some  timber  from  a  bark 
in  the  river,  had  remaued  on  board  the  vessel  to  watch  it ; 
aod  being  interrogated  whether  he  had  seen  any  one  thrown 
into  the  river  on  the  night  preceding,  he  replied,  that  he 
saw  two  men  on  foot,  who  came  down  the  street,  and  looked 
diligently  about,  to  observe  whether  any  person  was  pass- 
ing. That  seeing  no  one,  they  returned,  and  a  short  time 
afierwards  two  others  came,  aiul  looked  around  in  the  same 
manner  as  the  former :  no  person  still  appearing,  they  gave 
a  sign  to  their  companions,  when  a  man  came,  mounted  on 
a  white  horse,  having  behind  him  a  dead  body,  the  head  and 
anns  of  which  hung  on  one  side,  and  the  feet  on  the  other 
side  of  the  horse ;  the  two  persons  on  foot  supporting  the 
body,  to  prevent  its  falling.  They  thus  proceeded  towards 
that  part  where  the  filth  of  the  city  is  usually  discharged 
into  the  river,  and  turning  the  horse,  with  his  tail  towiuds 
the  water,  the  two  persons  took  the  dead  body  by  the  arms 


17 


Such  is  the  badge  that  knighthood  ever  wore. 
And  such  'tis  known  Sir  Ezzelin  had  worn 
Upon  the  night  that  led  to  such  a  mom. 
If  thus  he  perished.  Heaven  receive  his  soul ! 
His  uudiscover'd  limbs  to  ocean  roll ; 
And  charity  upon  the  hope  would  dwell 
It  was  not  Lara's  hand  by  which  he  ''ell 

XXV 

And  Kaled — Lara — Ezzelin,  are  gone. 

Alike  without  their  monumental  stone ! 

The  first,  all  efforts  vainly  strove  to  wean 

From  lingering  where  her  chieftain's  blood  had  been  ; 

Grief  had  so  tamed  a  spirit  once  too  proud. 

Her  tears  were  few,  her  wailing  never  loud ; 

But  furious  would  you  tear  her  from  the  spot 

Where  yet  she  scarce  believed  that  he  was  not, 

Her  eye  sliot  forth  with  all  the  living  fire 

That  haunts  the  tigress  in  her  whelplees  ire ; 

But  left  to  waste  her  weary  moments  there. 

She  talk'd  all  idly  nnto  shapes  of  air. 

Such  as  the  busy  brain  of  Sorrow  paints. 

And  woos  to  listen  to  her  fond  complaints: 

And  she  would  sit  beneath  the  very  tree 

Where  lay  his  drooping  head  upon  her  knee ; 

And  in  that  posture  where  she  saw  him  fall. 

His  words,  his  looks,  his  dying  grasp  recall ; 

And  she  had  shorn,  but  saved  her  raven  hair. 

And  oft  would  snatch  it  from  her  bosom  there, 

And  fold,  and  press  it  gently  to  the  ground. 

As  if  she  stauch'd  anew  some  phantom's  woimd 

Herself  would  question,  and  for  him  reply  ; 

Then  rising,  start,  and  beckon  him  to  fly 

From  some  imagined  spectre  in  pursuit ; 

Then  seat  her  down  upon  some  linden's  root. 

And  hide  her  visage  with  her  meager  hand. 

Or  trace  strange  characters  along  the  sand-— 

This  could  not  last — she  lies  by  him  she  loved ; 

Her  tale  untold — her  truth  too  deariy  proved.* 


and  feet,  and  with  all  their  strength  flung  it  into  the  river. 
The  person  on  horseback  then  asked  if  they  had  thrown  it 
in;  to  wliich  they  replied  Signor^  si  (yes.  Sir.)  He  then 
looked  towards  the  nver.  and  seeing  a  mantle  floating  on 
the  stream,  he  inquired  what  it  was  that  appeved  black,  to 
which  they  answered,  it  was  a  mantle ;  and  one  of  them 
threw  stones  upon  it,  in  consequence  of  which  it  sunk.  The 
attendants  of  the  pontiflfthen  mquired  from  Giorgio,  why  he 
had  not  revealed  this  to  the  governor  of  the  city ;  to  wnich 
he  replied,  that  he  had  seen  in  his  time  a  hundred  dead 
bodies  thrown  into  the  river  at  the  same  place,  without  any 
inquiry  being  made  respecting  them ;  and  that  he  had  not, 
therefore,  considered  it  as  a  matter  of  any  importance.  The 
fishermen  and  seamen  were  then  collected,  and  ordered  to 
search  the  river,  where,  on  the  following  evening,  they 
found  the  body  of  the  duke,  with  his  habit  entire,  and  thirty 
ducats  in  his  purse.  He  was  pierced  with  nine  wounds,  one 
of  which  was  in  his  throat,  the  others  in  his  head,  body,  and 
limbs.  No  sooner  was  the  pontiff  informed  of  the  death  of 
his  son,  and  that  he  had  been  thrown,  like  filth,  into  the 
river,  than,  giving  way  to  his  grief,  he  shut  himself  up  in  a 
chamber,  and  wept  bitterly.  The  Cardinal  of  Segovia,  and 
other  attendants  on  the  pope,  went  to  the  door,  and  aftei 
many  hotu^  spent  in  persuasions  and  exhortations  prevailed 
upon  him  to  admit  them.  From  the  evening  of  ^  ednesday 
till  the  following  Saturday  the  pope  took  no  food ;  nor  did  he 
sleep  from  Thursday  morning  till  the  same  hour  on  the  en- 
suing day.  At  length,  however,  giving  way  to  the  entreaties 
of  his  attendants,  he  began  to  restrain  his  sorrow,  and  to 
consider  the  injurv  which  his  own  health  might  sustain,  by 
the  further  indulgence  of  his  grief."— Rmcoc'*  Leo  the  Ttnih, 
vol.  i.  p.  265. 

» [Lara,  though  it  has  many  good  passages,  is  a  further 
proof  of  the  melancholy  fact,  which  is  true  of  all  sequels, 
from  the  continuation  of  the  iEneid,  by  one  of  the  famous 
Italian  poets  of  the  middle  ages,  down  to  "  Polly,  a  se- 
quel to  the  Beggar's  Opera,"  that "  more  last  words"  may 


130 


BYRON»S  WORKS. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH/ 


JOHN  HOBHOUSE,  ESQ. 


JatiMary  32,  1610. 


THIS  POEM   IS   INSCRIBED 

BT  ms 


FRIEND. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

*'The  grand  army  of  the  Tiirics,  (in  1715,)  under 
the  Prime  Vizier,  to  open  to  themselves  a  way  into 
the  heart  of  the  Morea,  and  to  form  the  siege  of  Napoli 
di  Romania,  the  most  considerable  place  in  all  that 
country,'  thought  it  best  in  the  first  place  to  attack 
Corinth,  upon  which  they  made  sercral  storms.  The 
garrison  being  weakened,  and  the  governor  seeing  it 
was  impossible  to  hold  out  against  so  mighty  a  force, 
thought  it  fit  to  beat  a  parley :  but  while  they  were 
treating  about  the  articles,  one  of  the  magazines  in 
the  Turkish  camp,  wherein  tliey  had  six  hundred 
barrels  of  powder,  blew  up  by  accident,  whereby  six 
or  seven  hundred  men  were  killed ;  which  so  enraged 
the  infidels,  that  they  would  not  grant  any  capitula- 

generally  be  spared,  without  any  great  detriment  to  the 
world.—BisHOP  Hkbbr. 

Lara  has  some  charms  which  the  Corsair  has  not.  It  is 
more  domestic ;  it  calls  forth  more  sympathies  with  pohsh- 
ed  society ;  it  is  more  intellectual,  but  much  less  passionate, 
less  vigorous,  and  less  brilliant ;  it  is  sometimes  even  lan> 
guid,— at  any  rate,  it  is  more  diffuse.— Sir  E.  Brtdoes. 

Lara,  obviously  the  sequel  of  "  The  Corsair,V  maintains 
in  general  the  same  tone  of  deep  interest  and  lofty  feel- 
ing ;— though  the  disappearance  of  Medora  from  the  scene 
deprives  it  of  the  enchanting  sweetness  by  which  its  terrors 
are  there  redeemed,  and  makes  the  hero,  on  the  whole,  less 
captivating.  The  character  of  Lara,  too,  is  rather  too 
elaborately  finished.*  and  his  nocturnal  encounter  with  the 
apparition  is  worked  up  too  ostentatiously.  There  is  infinite 
beauty  in  the  sketch  or  the  dark  Page,  and  in  many  of  the 
moral  or  general  reflections  which  are  interspersed  with 
the  narrative.— JsrrRBT.] 

» [The  "  Siege  of  Corinth,"  which  appears,  by  the  original 
MS.,  to  have  been  begun  in  Julvv  1815,  made  its  appearance 
in  January,  1816.  Mr.  Mhrray  naving  enclosed  Lord  Byron 
a  thousand,  guineas  for  the  copyright  of  this  poem,  and  of 
*♦  Parisina."  ne  replied,—"  Your  offer  is  liberal  in  the  ex- 
treme, and  much  more  than  the  two  poems  can  possibly  be 
worth ;  but  I  cannot  accept  it,  nor  will  not.  You  are  most 
welcome  to  them  as  additions  to  the  collected  volumes ;  but 
I  cannot  consent  to  their  separate  publication.  I  do  not 
like  to  risk  any  fame  (whether  merited  or  not)  which  I  hove 
been  favored  with  upon  compositions  which  I  do  not  feel  to 
be  at  afi  equ<:.  .3  my  own  notions  of  what  they  should  be ; 
thouffh  they  may  do  very  well  as  thinj^  without  pretension, 
to  add  to  the  publication  with  the  lighter  pieces.  1  have 
enclosed  your  draft  torn,  for  fear  of  accidents  by  the  way— 
I  wish  you  would  not  throw  temptation  in  mine.  It  is  not 
from  a  disdain  of  the  universal  idol,  nor  from  a  present  su- 
perfluity of  his  treasures,  I  can  assure  you,  that  I  refuse  to 
worship  him ;  but  what  is  right  is  right,  and  must  not  yield 
to  circumstances.  I  am  very  glad  that  the  Aandimftn^  was  a 
favorable  omen  of  the  morale  of  the  piece ;  but  you  must  not 
trust  to  that,  for  my  copyist  would  write  out  any  thing  I 
desired,  in  all  the  ignorance  of  innocence>-I  hope,  how- 
ever,  in  this  instance  with  no  great  peril  to  either.**  The 
copyist  was  Lady  Byron.    Lord  Byron  gave  Mr.  Giflbrd 


*  ["  What  do  the  Reviewers  mean  by '  elaborate  ?*  Lara 
I  wrote  while  undressing,  after  coming  home  from  balls  and 
masquerades,  in  the  year  of  revelry,  1814^'*— Byron  Ltttersp 
18B] 


tion,  but  stormed  the  place  witli  so  much  fury,  that 
they  took  it,  and  put  most  of  the  garrison,  with  Sig- 
uier Minotti,  the  governor,  to  the  sword.  The  rest, 
with  Antonio  Bembo,  proveditor  extraordinary,  were 
made  prtsonerB  of  war.** — History  of  the  Turks,  voL 
iiu  p.  151. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH/ 


In  the  year  since  Jesus  died  for  men,^ 
Eighteen  hundred  yean  and  ten, 

earte-bUmehe  to  strike  out  or  alter  any  thing  at  his  pleasure 
in  this  poem,  as  it  was  passing  through  the  press :  and  the 
reader  will  be  amused  with  the  varia  lectiones  which  had 
their  origin  in  this  extraordinary  confidence.  Mr.  Gifford 
drew  his  pen,  it  will  be  seen,  through  at  least  one  of  the 
most  admired  passages.] 

9  Napoli  di  Romania  is  not  now  the  most  considerable 
place  in  the  Morea,  but  Tripolitza,  where  the  Pacha  resides, 
and  maintains  his  government.  Napoli  is  near  Argos.  I 
visited  all  three  in  1810-11 ;  and,  in  the  course  of  journey- 
ing through  the  country  from  my  first  arrival  in  1609, 'I 
crossed  the  Isthmus  eight  times  m  my  way  from  Attica  to 
the  Morea,  over  the  mountains,  or  in  the  other  direction, 
when  passing  from  the  Gulf  of  Athens  to  that  of  Lepanto. 
Both  the  routes  arc  picturesque  and  beautiful,  though  very 
different:  that  by  sea  has  more  sameness :  but  the  voyage 
being  alwajrs  within  sight  of  land,  and  often  very  near  it, 
presents  many  attractive  views  of  the  islands  Salamis, 
^gina,  Poro,  &c.,  and  the  coast  of  the  Continent. 

•  [•*  With  regard  to  the  observations  on  carelessness,  &c.,*» 
wrote  Lord  Byron  to  a  friend, «« I  think,  with  all  humility, 
that  the  gentle  reader  has  considered  a  rather  uncommon, 
and  decidedly  irregular,  versification  for  haste  and  negli- 
gence.  The  measure  is  not  that  of  any  of  the  other  poems, 
which  (I  believe)  were  allowed  to  be  tolerably  correct,  ac- 
cording to  Byshe  and  the  fingers— or  ears— by  which  bards 
write,  and  readers  reckon.  Great  part  of  the  "  Siege'  Is  in 
fl  think)  what  the  learned  call  anapests,  (though  I  am  not 
sure,  being  heinously  forgetful  of  my  metres  and  my 
Gradus,)  and  many  of  the  lines  intentionally  longer  or 
shorter  than  its  rhyming  companion :  and  the  rhyme  also 
occurring  at  greater  or  less  mtervals  of  caprice  or  con- 
venience. I  mean  not  to  say  that  this  is  right  or  good,  but 
merely  that  I  could  have  been  smoother,  had  it  appeared 
to  me  of  advantage ;  and  that  I  was  not  otherw  i^e  without 
being  aware  of  the  deviation,  though  I  now  feel  sorry  for 
it,  as  I  would  undoubtedly  rather  please  than  not.  M  v  wish 
has  been  to  try  at  something  different  from  my  former 
efforts;  as  I  endeavored  to  make  them  differ  from  each 
other.  The  versification  of  the  *  Corsair*  is  not  that  of 
*  Lara  j*  nor  the  ♦  Giaour*  that  of  the '  Bride :» *  ChiUle  Harold* 
"s,  again,  varied  from  these ;  and  I  strove  to  vary  the  last 
somewhat  from  oi/  of  the  others.  Excuse  all  this  nonsense 
and  egotism.  The  fact  is,  that  I  am  rather  trying  to  think 
on  the  subject  of  this  note,  than  really  thinking  on  it.*'— 
Byrom  Letters,  Feb.  1816.] 

*  [On  Christmas-day,  1815,  Lord  Byron,  enclosing  this 
fragment  to  Mr.  Murray,  says,—**  I  send  some  lines,  wriur  n 
some  time  ago,  and  intended  as  an  opening  to  the  '  Siege  of 


I 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 


131 


We  were  a  gallant  compuny, 

Riding  o*er  la^,  and  sailing  o*er  sea. 

Oh !  but  we  went  merrily ! 

We  forded  the  river»  and  clomb  the  high  hill, 

Never  our  steeds  for  a  day  stood  still ; 

Whether  we  lay  in  the  cave  or  the  slied. 

Our  sleep  fell  soft  on  the  hardest  bed ; 

Whether  we  conch'd  in  our  rough  capote,' 

On  the  rougher  plauk  of  our  gliding  boat, 

Or  stretch *a  on  the  beach,  or  our  sidles  ^iread 

As  a  pillow  beneath  the  resting  head, 

Yiteh  we  woke  upon  the  morrow : 

All  our  thoughts  and  words  had  scope, 

We  had  heaJtli,  and  we  had  hope, 
Toil  and  travel,  but  no  sorrow. 
We  were  of  all  tongues  and  creeds  ;■« 
Some  were  those  who  counted  beads, 
Some  of  mosque,  and  some  of  church. 

And  some,  or  I  mis-say,  of  neither ; 
Yet  through  the  wide  world  might  ye  search, 

Nor  find  a  mother  crew  nor  bUther. 

Bat  some  are  dead,  and  some  are  gone, 
And  some  are  scatter*d  and  alone, 
And  some  are  rebels  on  the  hills' 

That  lo<^  along  Epirus*  valleys, 

Where  freedom  still  at  moments  ralUef, 
And  pays  in  blood  oppression's  ills; 

And  some  are  in  a  far  countree. 
And  some  all  restlesoly  at  home ; 

But  never  more,  oh !  never,  we 
Shall  meet  to  revel  and  to  roaoL 

But  those  hardy  days  flew  cheerily, 
And  when  they  now  fall  drearily. 
My  thoughts,  like  swallows,  skim  the  roam. 
And  bear  my  spirit  back  again 


Corinth.*    I  had  foreotten  them,  and  am  not  sure  that  they 
had  not  better  be  left  out  now ;— on  that,  you  and  your 
synod  can  determine.'*—"  They  are  written,'*  says  Moore. 
^  in  the  loosest  form  of  that  rambling  style  of  metre,  which 
his  admiration  of  Mr.  Coleridffe's  nChristaber  led  him,  at 
this  time,  to  adopt."*    It  will  oe  seen,  hereafter,  that  the 
poet  had  never  read  "  Christabel**  at  the  time  when  he 
wrote  these  lines:— he  ha.d,  however,  the  " Lay  of  the 
I  Last  MinstreL**    With  regard  to  the  character  of  the  spe- 
I  eies  of  versification  at  this  time  so  much  in  favor,  it  may  be 
i  observed,  that  feeble  imitations  have  since  then  vulgaruwd 
I  it  a  good  deal  to  thegeneral  ear ;  but  that,  in  the  hands  of 
Mr.  C^leridffe,  Sir^^ter  Scott,  and  Lord  Byron  himself, 
it  has  often  oeen  employed  with  the  most  happy  effect.    Its 
irregularity,  when  moulded  under  the  guidance  of  a  deli- 
cate taste,  is  more  to  the  eye  than  to  the  ear,  and  in  fact  not 
I  ^eater  than  was  admitted  in  some  of  the  roost  delicious  of 
I  the  lyrical  measures  of  the  ancient  Greeks.] 

I     1  [In  one  of  his  sea  excursions,  Lord  Bvron  was  nearly 

lost  in  a  Turkish  ship  of  war,  owine  to  the  ignorance  of 

■  the  capUin  and  crew.    "  Fletcher.**  he  says,  *'  yelled ;  the 

I  Greek  called  on  all  the  saints ;  the  Mussulmans  on  Alia ; 
while  the  captain  burst  into  tears,  and  ran  below  deck.  I 
did  what  I  could  to  console  Fletcher;  but  finding  him  in- 
corrigible, I  wrapped  myself  up  in  my  Albanian  capote,  and 
lay  down  to  wait  the  worst-**  This  striking  instance  of  the 
poet's  coolness  and  courage  is  thus  confirmed  by  Mr.  Hob- 
boose  :— **  Finding  that,  from  his  lameness,  he  was  unable 
to  be  of  any  serrice  m  the  exertions  which  our  very  serious 
danger  called  for,  after  a  laugn  or  two  at  the  panic  of  his 
iralet,  he  not  only  wrapped  himself  up  and  lay  down,  in  the 
manner  he  has  described,  but  when  our  difficulties  were 
terminated  was  found  fiast  asleep."] 

9  The  last  tidings  recently  heard  of  Dervish  (one  of  the 
Araaouts  who  followed  me)  state  him  to  be  in  revolt  upon 
the  mountains,  at  the  head  of  some  of  the  bands  common 
in  that  country  in  times  of  trouble. 

>  [In  the  original  MS.— 

"*  A  marvel  from  her  Moslem  bands.**] 


Over  the  earth,  and  through  the  aur, 

A  wild  bird  and  a  wanderer. 

Tis  this  that  ever  wakes  my  strain, 

And  oft,  too  oft,  implores  again 

The  few  who  may  endure  my  lay, 

To  follow  me  so  far  away. 

Stranger — wilt  thou  follow  now. 

And  sit  with  me  on  Acro-Corinth's  brow'i 


Many  a  vanish'd  year  and  age, 

And  tempest's  breath,  and  battle's  rage. 

Have  swept  o'er  Corinth  ;  yet  she  stands, 

A  fortress  form'd  to  Freedom's  hands." 

The  whirlwind's  wrath,  the  earthquake's  shock, 

Have  left  nntouch'd  her  hoary  rock. 

The  keystone  of  a  land,  which  still. 

Though  fall'n,  looks  proudly  on  that  hiU, 

The  landmark  to  the  double  tide 

That  purpling  rolls  on  either  side. 

As  iC  their  waters  chafed  to  meet. 

Yet  pause  and  crouch  beneath  her  feet 

But  could  the  blood  before  her  shed 

Since  first  Timoleon's  brother  bled,* 

Or  bafiled  Persia's  deepot  fled. 

Arise  from  out  the  earth  which  drank 

The  stream  of  slaughter  as  it  sank. 

That  sanguine  ocean  would  o'erflow 

Her  istlimuB  idly  spread  below : 

Or  could  the  bones  of  all  the  slain. 

Who  perish'd  there,  be  piled  again, 

That  rival  pyramid  would  rise 

More  mountain-like,  tlirough  those  clear  skies, 

Than  yon  tower-capp'd  Acropolis, 

Which  seems  the  very  clouds  to  kiss.* 


«  f  Tiinoleon,  who  had  saved  the  life  of  his  brother  Timo- 
phanes  in  battle,  afterwards  killed  him  for  aiming  at  the 
supreme  power  m  Corinth,  preferring  his  duty  to  his  country 
to  all  the  obligations  of  blood.  Dr.  warton  says,  that  Pope 
once  intended  to  write  an  epic  poem  on  the  story,  and  that 
Dr.  Akenside  had  the  same  design.] 

*  [The  Giaour,  the  Bride  of  Abydos,  the  Corsair,  Lara,  the 
Siege  of  Corinth,  followed  each  other  with  a  celerity,  which 
was  only  rivalled  by  their  success ;  and  if  at  times  the  author 
seemed  to  pause  in  his  poetic  career  with  the  throat  of  for- 
bearing further  adventure  for  a  time,  the  miblic  eagerly 
pardoned  the  breach  of  a  promise  by  keeping  which  they  must 
nave  been  sufferers  Exquisitely  beautiful  in  themselvej*, 
these  tales  received  a  new  charm  from  the  romantic  climes 
into  which  they  introduced  us,  and  from  the  oriental  costume 
so  strictly  preserved  and  so  picturesquely  exhibited.  Greece, 
the  cradle  of  the  poetry  with  which  our  earUest  studies  are 
familiar,  was  presented  to  us  among  her  ruins  and  her  sor- 
rows. Her  delightful  scenery,  once  dedicated  to  those  dei- 
ties who,  though  dethroned  from  their  own  Olympus,  still 
S reserve  a  poetical  empire,  was  spread  before  us  in  Lord 
lyron's  poetry^  varied  by  all  the  moral  effect  derived  from 
what  Greece  is  and  what  she  has  been,  while  it  was 
doubled  by  comparisons,  perpetually  excited,  between  the 
philosophers  and  heroes  who  formerly  inhabiteil  that  ro- 
mantic country,  and  their  descendants,  who  either  stoop  to 
their  Scythian  conquerors,  or  maintain,  among  the  recesses 
of  their  classical  mountainsj^an  independence  as  wild  and 
savage  as  it  is  precarious.  The  oriental  manners  also  and 
diction,  so  peculiar  m  their  picturesque  effect  that  tliey  can 
cast  a  charm  even  over  the  absurdities  of  an  eastern  tale, 
had  here  the  more  honorable  occupation  of  decoratmg  that 
which  in  itself  was  beautiful,  and  enhancing  by  novelty 
what  would  have  been  captivating  without  its  aid.  The 
powerful  impression  produced  by  this  peculiar  species  of 
poetry  confirmed  us  in  a  principle,  which,  though  it  will 
hardly  be  challenged  when  stated  as  an  axiom,  is  very 
rarely  complied  with  in  practice.  It  is.  that  every  author 
should,  like  Lord  Byron,  form  to  himself,  and  communicate 
to  the  reader,  a  precise,  defined,  and  distinct  view  of  the 
landscape,  sentiment,  or  action  which  he  intends  to  de- 
scribe to  the  reader.— Sib  Waltm  Scott.I 


1 


132 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


II. 

On  dun  Cithferon's  ridge  appeara 
The  gleam  of  twice  ten  thousand  spean ; 
And  downward  to  the  Isthmian  plain, 
I       From  shore  to  shore  of  either  main, 
The  tent  is  pitch'd,  the  crescent  shines 
Along  the  MosIem^s  leaguering  lines ; 
And  the  dusk  Spahi*s  bands^  advance 
Beneath  each  bearded  pacha's  glance ; 
And  far  and  wide  as  eye  can  reach 
The  turban'd  cohorts  throng  the  beach ; 
And  there  the  Arab's  camel  kneels. 
And  there  his  steed  the  Tartar  wheels ; 
The  Turcoman  hath  left  his  herd,' 
The  sabre  round  his  loins  to  gird ; 
And  there  the  volleying  thunders  pour, 
Till  waves  grow  smtoother  to  the  roar. 
The  trench  is  dug,  the  cannon's  breath 
Wings  the  far  hinng  globe  of  death  ; 
Fast  whirl  the  fragments  from  the  wall. 
Which  crumbles  with  the  ponderous  ball 
And  from  that  wall  the  foe  replies, 
O'er  dusty  plain  and  smoky  skies. 
With  fires  that  answer  fast  and  we.* 
The  summons  of  the  InfideL 


III. 

But  near  and  nearest  to  the  wall 
Of  those  who  wish  and  work  its  fall, 
With  deeper  skill  in  war's  black  art, 
Than  Othman's  sons,  and  high  of  heart 
As  any  chief  that  ever  stood 
Triumphant  in  the  fields  of  blood ; 
From  post  to  post,  and  deed  to  deed. 
Fast  spurring  on  his  reeking  steed, 
Where  sallymg  ranks  the  trench  assail, 
And  make  the  foremost  Moslem  quail ; 
Or  where  the  battery,  guarded  well, 
Remains  as  yet  impregnable, 
Aligliting  cheeriy  to  inspire 
The  solcOer  slackening  in  his  fire ; 
The  first  and  freshest  of  the  host 
Which  Stamboul's  sultan  tliere  can  boasts 
To  guide  the  follower  o'er  the  field, 
To  point  the  tube,  the  lance  to  wield. 
Or  whiri  around  tlie  bickering  blade  ; — 
Was  Alp,  the  Adrian  renegade ! 

IV. 

From  Vemce — once  a  race  of  worth 
His  gentle  sires — he  drew  his  birth  ; 
But  Tate  an  exile  from  her  shore. 
Against  his  countrymen  he  bore 
The  arms  they  tauglit  to  bear ;  and  now 
The  turban  gut  his  shaven  brow. 
Through  many  a  change  had  Corinth  paas'd 
With  Greece  to  Venice"  rule  at  last ; 
And  here,  before  her  walls,  with  those 
To  Greece  and  Venice  equal  foes. 


1  [Turkish  holders  of  military  fiefs,  which  oblige  them  to 
join  the  army,  mounted  at  their  own  expense.] 

9  The  life  of  the  Turcomans  is  wandermg  ana  patriarchal : 
they  dwell  in  tents. 

3  All  Coumourgi,  the  farorite  of  three  sultans,  and  Grand 
Tizier  to  Achmet  III.,  after  recovering  Peloponnesus  from 
the  Venetians  in  one  campaign,  was  moi  tally  wounded  in 
the  next,  against  the  Germans,  at  the  batUe  of  Feterwaradin, 
(in  the  plain  of  Carlowitz,)  in  Hungary,  endeavoring  to 


He  stood  a  foe,  with  all  the  zeal 
Which  young  and  fiery  converts  feel. 
Within  whose  heated  bosom  throngs 
The  memory  of  a  thousand  wrongs. 
To  him  had  Venice  ceased  to  be 
Her  ancient  civic  boast — "  the  Free ;" 
And  m  the  palace  of  St.  Mark 
Unnamed  accusers  in  the  dark 
Withm  the  «  Lion's  mouth"  had  placed 
A  charge  a^;ainst  him  uneffiu;ed : 
He  fled  in  time,  and  saved  his  life. 
To  waste  his  future  years  in  strife. 
That  taught  his  laud  how  great  her  loss 
In  him  who  triumph'd  o'er  the  Cross, 
'Gainst  which  he  rear'd  the  Crescent  hifj^, 
And  battled  to  avenge  or  die. 

V. 

Coumourvi' — he  whose  closing  Bcene 
Adom'd  Uie  triumph  of  Eugene, 
When  on  Carlowitz'  bloody  plam, 
The  last  and  mightiest  of  the  slam, 
He  sank,  regretting  not  to  die. 
But  cuned  the  Christian's  victory-^ 
Coumourgi— can  his  glory  cease, 
That  latest  conqueror  of  Greece, 
Till  Christian  hands  to  Greece  restore 
The  freedom  Venice  gave  of  yore  ? 
A  hundred  years  have  roll'd  away 
Since  he  refix'd  the  Moslem's  sway, 
And  now  he  led  the  Mussuhnan, 
And  gave  the  guidance  of  the  van 
To  Alp,  who  well  repaid  the  trust 
By  cities  levell'd  with  the  dust ; 
And  proved,  by  many  a  deed  of  death, 
How  firm  his  heart  in  novel  faith. 

VL 

The  walls  grew  weak  ;  and  fast  and  hot 

Agamst  them  pour'd  the  ceaseless  shot. 

With  unabating  fury  sent 

From  battery  to  battlement ; 

And  thunder>like  the  pealing  din 

Rose  from  each  heated  culverin : 

And  here  and  there  some  cracklmg  dome 

Was  fired  before  the  explodmg  bomb : 

And  as  the  fabric  sank  beneatii 

The  shattering  shell's  volcanic  breath. 

In  red  and  wreathmg  colunms  flash'd 

The  flame,  as  loud  the  ruin  crash'd, 

Or  into  countless  meteors  driven. 

Its  earth-staiB  melted  into  heaven ; 

Whose  clouds  that  day  grew  doubly  dun, 

Impervious  to  the  hidden  sun, 

With  volumed  smoke  that  slowly  grew 

To  one  wide  sky  of  sulphurous  hue. 

VII.. 

But  not  for  vengeance,  long  delay'd, 
Alone,  did  Alp,  the  renegade, 


rally  his  guards.  He  died  of  his  wounds  next  day.  His 
last  order  was  the  decapitation  of  General  Breuner,  and 
some  other  German  prisoners;  and  his  last  words,  "Oh 
that  I  could  thus  serve  all  the  Christian  dogs !"  a  speech 
and  act  not  unlike  one  of  CaliguU.  He  was  a  young  man 
of  ffreat  ambition  and  unbounded  presumption :  on  being 
told  that  Prince  £u^;ene,  then  opposed  to  him,  **was  a 
sreat  geneVal,'*  he  said,  "  I  shall  become  a  grMter,  and  at 
aiMexpeaae." 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 


133 


Tie  Modem  warrion  fternly  teach 
His  ekfll  to  pierce  the  promised  breach : 
Within  these  walls  a  maid  was  pent 
His  hope  would  win,  without  consent 
Of  that  inexorable  sire, 
Whose  heart  refused  him  in  its  ire, 
When  Alp,  beneath  his  Christian  name, 
Her  yirgin  hand  aspired  to  claim. 
In  happier  mood,  and  earlier  time, 
While  unimpeach*d  for  traitorous  crime. 
Gayest  in  gondola  or  hall, 
He  glittered  throu^  the  Carnival ; 
And  tuned  the  softest  serenade 
That  e*er  on  Adria's  waters  play'd 
At  midnight  to  Italian  maid.' 

vin. 

And  many  deem'd  her  heart  was  won ; 
For  sought  by  numbers,  given  to  none, 
Had  young  Francesca's  hand  remained 
Still  by  the  church's  bonds  unchain'd : 
And  when  the  Adriatic  bore 
Lanciotto  to  the  Paynim  shore. 
Her  wonted  smiles  were  seen  to  fail. 
And  pensive  wax'd  the  maid  and  pale ; 
More  constant  at  confessional. 
More  rare  at  masque  and  festival ; 
Or  seen  at  such,  with  downcast  eyes, 
Which  conquered  hearts  they  ceased  to  prize 
With  listless  look  she  seems  to  gaze ; 
With  humbler  care  her  form  arrays  ; 
Her  voice  less  lively  in  the  song ; 
Her  step,  though  light,  leas  fleet  among 
The  pairs,  on  whom  the  Morning's  glance 
Breaks,  yet  unsated  with  the  dance. 

IX. 

Sent  by  the  state  to  guard  the  land, 
(Which,  wrested  from  the  Moslem's  hand. 
While  Sobieski  tamed  his  pride 
By  Buda's  wall  and  Danube's  side, 
liie  chiefs  of  Venice  wrung  away 
From  Patra  to  Euboea's  bay,) 
Minotti  held  in  Corinth's  towers 
The  Doge's  delegated  powers. 
While  yet  the  pitying  eye  of  Peace 
I        SmOed  o'er  her  long  forgotten  Grreece : 
And  ere  that  faithless  truce  was  broke 
Which  freed  her  from  the  unchristian  yoke 
With  him  his  gentle  daugiiter  came  ; 
Nor  there,  since  Menelaus*  dame 
Forsook  her  lord  and  land,  to  prove 
What  woes  await  on  lawless  love, 
Had  fairer  form  adoru'd  the  shore 
Than  she,  the  matchless  stranger,  bore 


The  wall  is  rent,  the  ruins  yawn ; 
And,  with  to-morrow's  earliest  dawn, 
0>r  the  disjointed  mass  shall  vault 
The  foremost  of  the  fierce  assault 
The  bands  are  rank'd ;  the  chosen  van 
Of  Tartar  and  of  Mussubnan, 


1  [•<  In  midnight  courUhip  to  Italian  maid.^— MS.] 
*  C*  And  make  a  meltacholy  moan. 

To  mortal  roioe  and  ear  unknown.'*— MS.] 


The  full  of  hope,  misnamed  '*  forlorn," 
Who  hold  the  thought  of  death  in  scorn. 
And  win  their  way  with  falchion's  force, 
Or  pave  the  path  with  many  a  corse. 
O'er  which  the  following  brave  may  rise. 
Their  stepping-stone — the  last  who  dies ! 

XL 

'TIS  midnight :  on  the  mountains  brown 

The  cold,  round  moon  shines  deeply  down  ; 

Blue  roll  the  waten,  blue  the  sky 

Spreads  like  an  ocean  hung  on  high, 

Biespanded  with  those  isles  of  light. 

So  wii<Uy,  spiritually  bright ; 

Who  ever  gazed  upon  them  shining 

And  tum'd  to  earth  without  repining, 

Nor  wish'd  for  wings  to  flee  away. 

And  mix  with  their  eternal  ray  ? 

The  waves  on  either  shore  lay  there 

Calm,  clear,  and  azure  as  the  air ; 

And  scarce  their  foam  the  pebbles  shook, 

But  murmur'd  meekly  as  the  brook. 

The  winds  were  pillow'd  on  the  waves  ; 

The  banners  droop'd  along  their  staves, 

And,  as  they  fell  around  Uiem  furling. 

Above  them  shone  the  crescent  curiing ; 

And  that  deep  silence  was  unbroke, 

Save  where  the  watch  his  signal  spoke, 

Save  where  the  steed  neigh'd  oft  and  shrill, 

And  echo  answer'd  from  the  hill. 

And  the  ^e  hum  of  that  wild  host 

Rustled  like  leaves  from  coast  to  coast, 

As  rose  the  Muezzin's  voice  in  air 

In  midnight  call  to  wonted  prayer ; 

It  rose,  that  chanted  mournful  strain. 

Like  some  lone  spirit's  o'er  the  plain : 

'Twas  musical,  but  sadly  sweet. 

Such  as  when  winds  and  harp-strings  meet, 

And  take  a  long  unmeasured  tone. 

To  mortal  minstrelsy  unknown.' 

It  seem'd  to  those  within  the  wall 

A  cry  prophetic  of  their  fall : 

It  struck  even  the  besieger's  ear 

With  something  ominous  and  drear. 

An  undefined  and  sudden  thrill. 

Which  makes  the  heart  a  moment  still, 

Then  beat  with  quicker  pulse,  ashamed 

Of  that  strange  sense  its  silence  framed ; 

Such  as  a  sudden  paasing-bell 

Wakes,  though  but  for  a  stranger's  knell.* 

XII. 

Tie  tent  of  Alp  was  on  the  shore ; 

The  sound  was  hush'd,  the  prayer  was  o'er; 

The  watch  was  set,  the  night-roimd  made, 

All  mandates  issued  and  olwy'd : 

'Tis  but  another  anxious  night. 

His  pams  the  morrow  may  requite 

With  all  revenge  and  love  can  pay, 

In  guerdon  for  their  long  delay. 

Few  hours  remain,  and  he  hath  need 

Of  rest,  to  nerve  for  many  a  deed 

Of  slaughter :  but  within  his  soul 

The  thoughts  like  troubled  waters  roll 


•  ["  Which  rings  a  deep,  internal  knell, 
A  Tisienary  passing  beU.*'— MS.] 


134 


BYRON'S  WORKS. 


He  stood  alone  among  tlie  host ; 

Not  his  the  loud  fanatic  boast 

To  plant  the  crescent  o*er  the  crots, 

Or  risk  a  life  with  little  loss. 

Secure  in  paradise  to  be 

By  Houris  loved  immortally : 

Nor  his,  what  burning  patriots  feel, 

The  stem  exaltedness  of  zeal, 

Profuse  of  blood,  untired  in  toH, 

When  battlmg  on  the  parent  soil 

He  stood  alone — a  renegade 

Against  the  country  he  betray'd  ; 

He  stood  alone  amidst  his  band, 

Without  a  trusted  heart  or  hand : 

They  foUowM  him,  for  he  was  brave. 

And  great  the  spoil  he  got  and  gave  ; 

They  crouch'd  to  him,  for  he  had  skill 

To  warp  apd  wield  the  vulgar  will : 

But  still  his  Christian  origin 

With  them  was  little  less  than  sin. 

Th«y  envied  even  the  faithless  fame 

He  eamM  beneath  a  Moslem  name ; 

Since  he,  their  mij^tiest  chief,  had  been 

In  youth  a  bitter  Nazarene. 

They  did  not  know  how  pride  can  stoop, 

When  baffled  feelings  withering  droop ; 

They  did  not  know  now  hate  can  bum 

In  hearts  once  changed  from  soft  to  stem  * 

Nor  all  the  false  and  fatal  zeal 

The  convert  of  revenge  can  feel. 

He  raled  them — ^man  may  mie  the  wont. 

By  ever  daring  to  be  finrt :  • 

So  lions  o'er  the  jackal  sway ; 

The  jackal  points,  he  fells  the  prey,' 

Then  on  the  vulgar  yelling  press, 

To  gorge  the  relics  of  success. 

XIII. 

His  head  grows  fever'd,  and  his  putoe 
The  quick  successive  throbs  convulse  ; 
In  vain  from  side  to  side  he  throws 
His  form,  in  courtship  of  repose  f 
Or  if  he  dozed,  a  sound,  a  start 
Awoke  him  with  a  sunken  heart 
The  turban  on  his  hot  brow  press'd, 
The  mail  weigh'd  lead-like  on  his  breast. 
Though  oft  and  long  beneath  its  weight 
Upon  his  eyes  had  slumber  sate. 
Without  or  couch  or  canopy, 
Ehccept  a  rougher  field  and  sky 
Than  now  might  yield  a  warrior's  bed, 
Than  now  along  the  heaven  was  spread. 
He  could  not  rest,  he  could  not  stay 
Withm  his  tent  to  wait  for  day, 
But  walked  him  forth  along  the  sand, 
Where  thousand  sleepers  strew'd  tlie  strand 
What  pillow'd  them  1  and  why  should  he 
More  wakeful  than  the  humblest  be  7 
Since  more  their  peril,  worse  their  toil, 
And  yet  they  fearless  dream  of  spoil ; 
While  he  alone,  where  thousands  pass'd 
A  night  of  sleep,  perchance  their  laiit. 
In  sickly  vigil  wandered  on. 
And  envied  all  he  gazed  upon. 


>  [**  As  lions  o*er  the  lackal  sway 


Tliey 


sprinffing  dauntless  on  the  prey ; 


/  folTow  on,  and  yelling  press 

To  gorge  the  fragments  of  success.'*— MS.] 


XIV. 

He  felt  his  soul  become  more  light 
Beneath  tlie  freshness  of  the  night 
Cool  was  the  silent  sky,  though  calm. 
And  bathed  his  brow  with  airy  balm : 
Behind,  the  camp— before  him  lay, 
In  many  a  winding  creek  and  bay, 
Lepanto's  gulf;  and,  on  the  brow 
Of  Delphi's  hill,  unshaken  snow, 
High  and  etemal,  such  as  shone 
Through  thousand  summers  brightly  gone. 
Along  the  gulf,  the  mount,  the  clime ; 
It  will  not  melt,  like  man,  to  tune : 
Tyrant  ana  -Jave  are  swept  away, 
Less  form'd  to  w^ar  before  the  ray ; 
But  that  white  veil,  the  lightest,  frailest. 
Which  on  the  mighty  mount  thou  hailest, 
While  tower  and  tree  are  tom  and  rent. 
Shines  o'er  its  craggy  battlement ; 
In  form  a  peak,  in  height  a  cloud. 
In  texture  like  a  hovering  shroud. 
Thus  high  by  parting  Freedom  spread, 
As  from  her  fond  abode  she  fled. 
And  luiger'd  on  the  spot,  where  long 
Her  prophet  spirit  spake  in  song. 
Oh !  still  her  step  at  moments  falters 
O'er  withered  fields,  and  ruin*d  altars. 
And  fain  would  wake,  in  souls  too  broken, 
By  pointing  to  each  glorious  token : 
But  vain  her  voice,  till  better  days 
Dawn  in  those  yet  remember'd  rays. 
Which  shone  upon  the  Persian  flying, 
And  saw  the  Spartan  smile  in  dying. 


XV. 

Not  mindless  of  these  mighty  times 

Was  Alp,  despite  his  flight  and  crimes ; 

And  through  this  night,  as  on  he  wander'd, 

And  o'er  the  past  and  present  ponder'd, 

And  thought  upon  the  glorious  dead 

Who  there  in  better  cause  had  bled. 

He  felt  how  faint  and  feebly  dim 

The  fame  that  could  accrue  to  him, 

Who  cheer'd  the  band,  and  waved  the  sword, 

A  traitor  in  a  turban'd  hord^  ; 

And  led  them  to  the  lawless  siege. 

Whose  best  success  were  sacrilege. 

Not  so  had  those  his  fancy  numbered, 

The  chiefs  whose  dust  around  him  slumber'd ; 

Their  phalanx  marshallM  on  the  plala. 

Whose  bulwarks  were  not  then  in  vain. 

They  fell  devoted,  but  undying ; 

The  very  gale  their  names  seem'd  sighing : 

The  waters  murmur'd  of  their  name ; 

The  woods  were  peopled  with  their  fame ; 

The  silent  pillar,  lone  and  gray, 

Claun'd  kindred  with  their  sacred  clay ; 

Their  spirits  wrapp'd  the  dusky  mountain, 

Their  memory  sparkled  o'er  the  fountain ; 

The  meanest  rill,  the  mightiest  river 

Roll'd  mingling  with  their  fame  forever. 

Despite  of  every  joke  she  bears, 

That  land  is  glory's  still  and  theirs  !* 


1     *  C"  He  vainly  tura*d  from  side  to  side, 
I  And  each  reposing  posture  tried.''~MS.] 

•  [Here  follows,  in  MS.— 

"  Immortal— boundless— undccay'd— 
Their  souls  the  very  soil  pervade."] 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 


135 


'Tib  still  a  watchword  to  the  earth : 
When  man  would  do  a  deed  of  worth 
He  points  to  Greece,  and  turns  to  tread, 
So  sanction^,  on  the  tyrant's  head : 
He  looks  to  her,  and  rushes  on 
Where  life  is  lost,  or  freedom  won.* 

XVI. 

Still  by  the  shore  Alp  mutely  mused, 

And  wooM  the  freshness  Night  diffused. 

There  shrinks  no  ebb  in  that  tideless  sea,' 

Which  changeless  rolls  eternally ; 

So  that  wildest  of  waves,  in  their  angriest  mood, 

Scarce  break  on  the  bounds  of  the  land  for  a  rood ; 

And  the  powerless  moon  beholds  them  flow, 

Heedless  if  she  come  or  go : 

Calm  or  high,  in  main  or  bay. 

On  their  coune  she  hath  no  sway. 

The  rock  unworn  its  base  doth  bare. 

And  looks  o'er  the  surf,  but  it  comes  not  there ; 

And  the  fringe  of  the  foam  may  be  seen  below. 

On  the  line  mat  it  left  long  ages  ago : 

A  smooth  short  space  of  yellow  sand 

Between  it  and  the  greener  land. 

He  wander'd  on,  along  the  beach. 
Till  within  the  range  of  a  carbine's  reach 
Of  the  leagner'd  wall ;  but  they  saw  him  not. 
Or  how  could  he  'scape  from  the  hostile  shot?* 
Did  traitors  lurk  in  the  Christians'  hold? 
Were  their  hands  grown  stiff,  or  their  hearts  wax'd  cold  ? 
I  know  not,  in  sooth  ;  but  from  yonder  wall 
There  flash'd  no  fire,  and  there  hiss'd  no  ball. 
Though  he  stood  beneath  the  bastion's  frown. 
That  flank'd  the  seaward  gate  of  the  town  ; 
Though  he  heard  the  sound,  and  could  almost  tell 
The  sullen  words  of  the  sentmel. 
As  his  measured  step  on  the  stone  below 
Clank'd,  as  he  paced  it  to  and  fro ; 
And  he  saw  the  lean  dogs  beneath  the  waU 
Hold  o'er  the  dead  their  carnival,* 
Gorging  and  growling  o'er  carcass  and  limb ; 
They  were  too  busy  to  bark  at  him ! 
From  a  Tartar's  skull  they  had  stripp'd  the  flesh, 
As  ye  peel  the  fig  when  its  fruit  is  fresh  ; 
And  their  white  tusks  craunch'd  o'er  the  whiter  skull,* 
As  it  slipp'd  through  their  jaws,  l¥hen  their  edge  grew 
As  they  lazily  mumbled  the  bones  of  the  dead,    [dull, 
Whe&  .isy  scarce  could  rise  from  the  spot  where  they 
fed; 


>  ["  Where  Freedom  loveliest  may  be  won."— MS.] 

>  The  reader  need  hardly  be  reminded  that  there  are  no 
perceptible  tides  in  the  Mediterranean. 

s  [**  Or  woald  not  waste  on  a  single  head 
The  ball  on  numbers  better  sped.*'— MS.] 

•  [Omit  the  rest  of  this  section.— Giffobd.] 

•  This  spectacle  I  have  seen,  such  as  described,  beneath 
the  wall  of  the  Sersslio  at  Constantinople,  in  the  httle 
cavities  worn  by  the  Bosphorus  in  the  rock,  a  narrow  ter- 
race of  which  projects  between  the  wall  and  the  water.  I 
think  the  fact  is  also  mentioned  in  Hobhouse's  Travels. 
The  bodies  were  probably  those  of  some  refractory  Joni- 
larics.  C**  The  sensations  produced  by  the  state  of  the 
weather,  and  leaving  a  comfortable  cabm,  were  in  unison 
with  the  impressions  which  we  felt  when,  passing  imder  the 
palace  of  the  sultans,  and  gazing  at  the  gloomy  cypresses 
which  rise  above  the  walls,  we  saw  two  dogs  gnawing  a 
dead  body."—  Hobhousb.] 

«  [This  passage  shows  the  force  of  Lord  Byron's  pencil.— 

jBrFBBY.J 

V  This  tatty  or  long  lock,  is  left,  from  a  superstition  that 
Mahomet  will  draw  them  into  Paradise  by  it. 

•  (Than  the  mangled  corpse  in  its  own  blood  lying.— G.J 


So  well  had  they  broken  a  lingering  fast 

With  those  who  had  fallen  for  that  night's  repast.* 

And  Alp  knew,  by  the  turbans  that  roU'd  on  the  sand, 

The  foremost  of  these  were  the  best  of  his  band : 

Crimson  and  green  were  the  shawls  of  tlieir  wear, 

And  each  scalp  had  a  single  long  tuft  of  hair,^ 

All  the  rest  was  shaven  and  bare. 

The  scalps  were  in  the  wild  dog's  maw, 

The  hair  was  tangled  round  his  jaw. 

But  close  by  the  shore,  on  the  edge  of  the  gulf. 

There  sat  a  vulture  flappmg  a  wolf. 

Who  had  stolen  from  the  hills,  but  kept  away. 

Scared  by  the  dogs,  from  the  human  prey ; 

But  he  seized  on  his  share  of  a  steed  that  lay, 

Pick'd  by  the  birds,  on  the  sands  of  the  bay. 


xvn. 

Alp  tum'd  him  from  the  sickening  sight  * 

Never  had  shaken  his  nerves  in  nght ; 

But  he  better  could  brook  to  behold  the  dying. 

Deep  iu  the  tide  of  their  wann  blood  lying," 

Scorch'd  with  the  death -thirst,  and  writhing  in  vain, 

Tlian  the  perishing  dead  who  ore  post  all  pain.* 

There  is  something  of  pride  iu  the  perilous  hour, 

Whate'er  be  the  shape  in  which  death  may  lower ; 

For  Fame  is  there  to  say  who  bleeds. 

And  Honor's  eye  on  daring  deeds ! 

But  when  all  is  past,  it  is  hiunbling  to  tread 

O'er  the  weltering  field  of  the  tombless  dead,* 

And  see  worms  of  the  earth,  and  fowls  of  the  air» 

Beasts  of  the  forest,  all  gathering  there  ; 

All  regarding  man  as  their  prey. 

All  rejoicing  in  his  decay." 


xvni. 

There  is  a  temple  in  ruin  stands, 

Fashion'd  by  long  forgotten  hands ; 

Two  or  throe  columns,  and  many  a  stone, 

Marble  and  granite,  with  grass  o'ergrown ! 

Out  upon  Time  !  it  will  leave  no  more 

Of  the^hings  to  come  than  the  things  before !" 

Out  upon  Time !  who  forever  will  leave 

But  enough  of  the  past  for  the  future  to  grieve      [be : 

O'er  that  which  hath  been,  and  o'er  tliat  which  must 

What  we  have  seen,  our  sons  shall  see ; 

Remnants  of  things  that  have  pass'd  away. 

Fragments  of  stone,  rear'd  by  creatures  of  clay !" 


» [Strike  out— 

"  ScorchM  with  the  death-thirst,  and  writHing  in  vain, 
Than  the  perishing  dead  who  are  past  all  pain." 
What  is  a  "  perishing  dead  T**- Giffobd.] 
10  [O'er  the  weltering  limbs  of  the  tombless  dead.— G.] 
"  ["  All  that  livelh  on  man  will  prey, 
All  rejoice  in  his  decay. 
All  that  can  kindle  dismay  and  disgust 
Follow  his  frame  from  the  bier  to  the  dust."— MS.l 

n  [Omit  this  couplet.— G.] 
u  [After  this  follows  in  MS.— 

"  Monuments  that  the  commg  age 
Leaves  to  the  spoil  of  the  seasons*  rage- 
Till  Ruin  makes  the  relics  scarce, 
Then  Learning  acts  her  solemn  farce, 
And,  roaming  through  the  marble  waste. 
Prates  of  beauty,  art,  and  taste. 

XIX. 

"  That  Temple  was  more  in  the  midst  of  the  plain , 
What  of  that  shrine  did  yet  remain 
Lay  to  his  left ."] 


136 


BYRON'S   WORKS. 


XIX. 

He  sate  him  down  at  a  pillar's  bojse,' 

And  passM  his  hand  athwart  his  face  ; 

Like  one  in  dreary  musing  mood, 

Declining  was  his  attitude  ; 

His  heaa  was  drooping  on  his  breast, 

Fever'd,  throbbing,  and  oppressed : 

And  o*er  his  brow,  so  downward  bent, 

Oft  his  beating  fingers  went, 

Hurriedly,  as  you  may  see 

Your  own  run  over  the  ivory  key, 

Ere  the  measured  tone  is  taken 

By  the  chords  you  would  awaken. 

lliere  he  sate  all  heavily. 

As  he  hoard  the  night-wind  sigh. 

Was  it  the  wind  through  some  hollow  stone. 

Sent  that  soft  and  tender  moon  V 

He  lifted  his  head,  and  he  lookM  on  the  sea, 

But  it  was  unrippled  as  glass  may  be ; 

He  look'd  on  the  long  grass — ^it  waved  not  a  blade  ; 

How  was  that  gentle  sound  convey'd  7 

He  looked  to  the  banners — each  flag  lay  still. 

So  did  the  leaves  on  Cithsron^s  hill, 

And  he  felt  not  a  breath  come  over  his  cheek ; 

What  did  that  sudden  sound  bespeak  7 

He  tum'd  to  the  left — is  he